When I die
not if I die
library of congress
will close out my memory card
close out my small condominium unit
rent it out. Those unfinished poems,
date undated, tossed out with trash.
My tower computer, obsolete
to miniature handheld devises.
My tower is a small penis that cannot get up.
Skyscrapers are dwarfs.
They draw a period to their doorstep.
In my grave cylinder beneath willow tree earth
complete poems go, illusive, informative
no big words:
When I die
not if I die.
© Michael Lee Johnson
Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. He is a Canadian and USA citizen. Today he is a poet, editor, publisher, freelance writer, amateur photographer, small business owner in Itasca, Illinois. He has been published in more than 880 small press magazines in 27 countries, and he edits 10 poetry sites. Author’s website http://poetryman.mysite.com/.
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