“Style means the right word. The rest matters little.”
She had a few choice words
for us all;
too few, on idiots to waste.
To save them for her poem,
she burned all her previous attempts.
she counted her few remaining words.
she dry-cleaned her favorite dress.
Proceeded to wear it
and in three fingers a red pen she held.
A single, blank, eight and a half by eleven page.
Abstract: One over many repeating themselves
Time: Her ever diminishing existence
Locus: The ever diminishing space she occupied.
Form: Austere; her Time's Moral Imperative
On the single, blank, eight and a half by eleven page,
she bleeds red...
Style, her style, her pose, her choice.
It's about the vowels and where she places them
It's about the spaghetti and how she cooks it...
- Refuses the blindfold.
Now, the fleeting instant
Now, the perpetual forever...
- Forever defeated.
Time after time
she admits defeat
and never surrenders...
The finishing touch on the top, the title: Maria's Poem
Shrugged her shoulders
and a cigarette, she lit...