Poetry: 1 Poem by Jeffrey Zable
Gone, but still laughing at how things are
no matter how many times the props are rearranged
in the room.
Lying on the divan all in makeup that he stole from the drawer
of Helena Rubenstein, he picks up a megaphone
and announces that the worms will dance a polka
instead of a foxtrot.
With this, the dogs clap their paws and say,
“Robert, you old SOB, why don’t you ever throw us
To which he replies, “Because dogs are the worst poets
in the world. I know because I used to be one,
long before the word entered my brain
and clung there like a rag from the bag of a hag.”
And while his shadow merges with the air
he fits himself into an imaginary oven.
Ignites it using mental telepathy. . .
Photo Credit: The LA Times