I’d imagine if ever found,
He’d hang around
A ****** pub
Right smack in the middle
Of town.

Perhaps he’d nearly burn
Off his throat from
Straight tonic and
Gin or
Maybe he’d have a
Conversation with
The raven; the
Sardonic chant of
“Nevermore” echoing the
Walls as he’d drunkenly
Hit the floor.

Stifling an intoxicated
Giggle or
Two, I’d ask him
What Annabel Lee would
Do once the demons
In the sea threatened
Her love or if
The evil eye was eyeing
Him from above.

I’d ask all things, up
And down and
Why a man of
His genius still
Lingered in this sleepy
Old town.

Perhaps before I
Depart, I’ll pluck a
Feather right from his
Raven’s wing and leave
Mr. Poe to bask
In the sweet
Sound of silence
As the pendulum
Swings.