Unwitting Outsider Poetry From Thursday

I wrote a poem I didn't write today. For some weird reason I had this flashback to a bartender I worked with almost two decades ago who was always telling me about this goof she was dating. She died suddenly, and I had this bad feeling for her that the end of her life was wasted. The title came to mind and I immediately decided I wouldn't write the poem because I've been there and done that on the foul language and poetry about terrible subject matter. Instead I wrote on Facebook about how I thought of the title then decided to do something else, and my friend Andrew reposted what I said in poetry form, and it seemed like a poem to me. Not the one I was going to write, but a perfectly valid poem about why I didn't write the poem I was going to write, which you now know the story of, too.


Her Last Few Fucks Were Wasted

I just had a sudden urge to write a poem titled
"Her Last Few Fucks Were Wasted,"
and even ten years ago
I would have too,
but instead I walked
to the bathroom,
trimmed my nosehair,
and decided this poem need not exist.
You're welcome.


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