I don’t remember when it started
but the end came last Tuesday.
I’d taken a Xanax and slept all day,
seeing an old girlfriend
and my dead dog
in dreams or nightmares
or some other hell that I’ll get to relive
if I don’t get this one right.
And when I finally woke
I couldn’t ignore what all the bad poems
and awful music had been telling me:
I’d lived too long,
there aren’t going to be new chapters in my book,
there won’t be any more songs.
This can happen to some at ninety
and others at thirty.
But I think for most it never happens
and that’s why rational people still breed
without any fear
of consequence.
Don’t they see the holes in everything?
Don’t they know there’s no second coming?
Most people start dying from the minute
they’re born. It
took me thirty-five years to give up
and sometimes
I’m still proud of that.
The world didn’t want a new poet,
but there’s always room for another plumber.
Scott Laudati’s recent work has appeared in The Cardiff Review and The Columbia Journal. He spends most of his time with a 14 year-old schnoodle named Dolly. Visit him on social media @ScottLaudati.