MY LAST POEM

               Well, maybe not, but let’s just say it is—
               A sonnet let it be, since that’s my mode
               And in the manner that Shakespeare wrote his;
               A ballad’s not my thing, nor is an ode.

               But now I’m losing time, and space decreases,
               And I have yet to settle on a theme
               Since after fourteen lines a sonnet ceases
               Once running out the course of its rhyme scheme.

               My theme is that of Hamlet’s father’s ghost:
               “Remember me!” for that is why I write,
               And like the Bard, to leave behind a boast
               That Time will spare my words from endless night.

                    No, surely this is not the way to go—
                    Another day, dear Lord—spare me your blow!

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