The Poet’s Effects (Muse #7)
He was spreadeagled over his keyboard,
amending his testament. His last
stroke was a dolorous comma.
On his hard drive, now
locked in rigor mortis, but otherwise
quite serviceable, we found
fifty-seven drafts of his life.
He had abandoned them. They were orphans,
all raggedy fonts and porringers
hiding in different folders.
Some were delinquent. They will be herded
into a carboard wallet, which is what
he wanted, apparently. A letter?
Yes, there was a letter, with several lines
run through it, extended (or intended)
metaphors. He had not saved
it, but he’d run it off, using his
very last cartridge. Deceased had left
all his effects (such as they were, and not
particularly dazzling) to his muse.
We have no name. Just part of a post-code.
It seems that she (we guess at that) had
recently deserted him, or he her.
We will search the yellow pages – his,
I mean – for any sign of her identity.
Otherwise, file closed. It would seem
that he’d recently been on the hard stuff.