Will I be dusted out
From history’s speckled surface?
Or perhaps my chisel-carved woodwork
Will be just termite dust
Swept by the wicked broom of time……

And I, drowning in that sorrow ocean
Only alive in heartbeat and the occasional reflex
Waves billowing all around me
And I, a castaway drowning
In my own alibi-less in-celebrity

And orphaned by fate – a foster child of lost dreams
I still stand with my palms scribbling
On a scratch pad – seemingly questioning
Why the king coconuts don’t always give sweet nectar
Or why the ripe papaw has fungal spots

After all I’m the washed out poet
Washed and hung on the backyard line
As white as the sink that funnels my leftovers
And as pale as the ghosts of my namesakes
Found on poetry webpages
A cheapskate selling pieces of cheesecake
To the lowest lifeform able to read

And cheesy words are my only offering
Greased with ricotta and cottage cheese

Yet garnished with a serving of love.