The Pyre
“When the moon, kiss the sea,” was never my line
but I once saw the sinking sun painting oak leaves Auburn
and olive leaves green as old gold
The mules in the field had eyes of onyx, and the sky was
Nursery pink to please the children and me.  But this sort of levity
was not on my mind it was getting cold the man who delivered
short sliced wood could not come this year he had moved into
an old folks home
and his son did not deliver a small amount of firewood I remember
him when he was a lad eagerly helping  his old man, just waiting for his turn
to make it big, we are all capitalists now an agency has offered to
sell my books, no problem they say 40% of everything
they give a **** about Auburn colors on leaves and old gold unless it
is cash they often rings my wife answer the phone I'm not in she says
but sometimes I'm caught unaware the thought of parting with
my books are too much they are packed in plastic awaiting my death and
then the horde will come and burn them in the garden a pyre of helpless thought
pathetic attempt writing something beautiful, pathetically failing
I cannot fly on romantic wings I’m not a poet only a smithy