To the Second to Last Poet

The day would come – we saw it
and now pondering the verse
carved into your damp granite
I will remember the curse,

how we dared color gray rows
of the trudging, endless lines
marching in near mindless prose
with a bit of rhythm, rhyme.

We broke their lines, set words free,
blued their skies with metaphor
though they called us bourgeoisie
it was we who searched for more.

Suddenly now I’m the last
with nothing better to do
than spend my day in the past
discussing poems with you.