Alan Summers
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A character in a poem never written
There are nautiluses who remember useful things for only a day,
and stupid flies live longer, while smart flies wear out their brains sooner.
Children exposed to lead are likely to commit violent crimes as adults,
and if born to mothers who use mobile phones while pregnant, are more likely
to contact friends at birth.
Then there are the six-year-olds who work out past-tense forms of imaginary verbs.
All this while I smell ammonia further down the hospital ward.
This is my last poem, written in my head. How long will it tuck into a brain fold without falling out?
General Kai has still not found a place in this poem and is getting very agitated.
He is my failed assassin, who has never killed, and plans elaborate makeovers
in empty apartments. I wonder how lonely he is while the owners party the night away somewhere else.
“I’m sorry,” I say, “but things are not easy for me right now.”
He nods.
“I am a dying poet who cannot hold a pen to paper, just hold you close in my mind.”