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!