Primordial belch
Exhausted on arrival
Falling to the ground
Wheezes at the finish line
Pulls a deep breath through a straw
Raises its hands in triumph
Basks in absent anticipated glory
The last poem evaporates home
Sits at the table alone
Sucks down a power drink
Wonders if it was worth it
If it ever was
If even looking back at the firing squad
Makes a difference
The last poem
Tired
Reflective
Swallows the year and three Advil
Wondering what its 364 siblings are doing
Decides it doesn't matter
Fixes a drink
Something tasty on ice
Now appreciates the fuss
The last poem is a bitch
Shredded
Absent of defense, pretense
Grows old with the spider
Hatches another plot
Waits for discovery
If only, the poem thinks
If only for righteousness
If only for love
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