He sat and reached purposefully for his pen
the long-discarded note-book on his knee.
This was going to be the last poem,
the final poem. It would be written
in a considered draft that very evening.
Over the ensuing weeks
it would be pored over,
amended and edited
until it was sharp as a lemon.
Then he would type it slowly, painfully,
to avoid the usual typos,
and then he would have done with it.
The completed poem would be unread,
unseen by even his closest friends.
he would consign it to his bottom drawer.
Having decided on his course of action
he paused waiting for his Muse
to drop the appropriate image.
A skull appeared, a neat hole
incised in the crown. Through the hole
thrust a vibrant sprig of parsley.
The lower jaw chattered incomprehensively.
There was a clacking of loose teeth.
It was several moments before
he could make it out.
“There is no last poem!
There is no final poem!” it said.
