who can blame the stars for wanting to diminish

as they grow old

possibly frail, definitely lonely,

on the outskirts of existence hitting boneless pavements made

from quarks dipped in infinite blackness,

gathered together,

and released

words and formulas memorized for exams one or two lifetimes ago

for reasons no one knows,

or cares to remember

while maestros habla mucho por nada

and books keep piling higher and higher

with information that keeps getting lost and collected

but never found

and for some reason never recycled,

as time comes to collect

there’s more poetry in my trash than I’d like to admit,

definitely more poetry that I would never want anyone to see,

though for whatever reason

this isn’t one of them

Fred Aiken Writing