Today’s prompt, a poem titled “Last ____.” As always, I worry that the title is too on-point, and should be changed.
My bones are not a captain’s bones to go
And with my floundering ship embrace the wave.
I’ve vowed, when on the margin of my grave,
Some mourners and a eulogist to throw
Inside it first, so when the trumpets blow
To raise the tired, stiff-jointed dead, and they’ve
Begun to sloth slouch out, I’ll first to brave
The new world, boosted by the stiffs below.
Although this night’s been taking water fast,
Although the midnight curfew is aweigh,
And, pumpkin like, our friends rot in the street,
Let’s you and I acknowledge there’s one last
Three minutes left of garbage pop to play.
Let’s clamber from this grave and try our feet.