Lit. Obit. (Poetry)

For B.B.

Too late now, old girl — the ashtray’s overflowing
and another literary prize gone to someone else —
someone younger with a snappier prose style.

You stayed up there a while — your name guaranteed
the right reviews — the satisfactory level of sales —
and the tales kept on coming — making the shortlist.

Each time you had to drag yourself away
from the typewriter to sit patient
through the whole charade and clap
as though you meant it when the winner was announced
with all that pomp (as if it really was the be-all)
and watch the big cheque pass you by again.

Who noticed that your smoke ring did a shrug —
like it was half-expected anyway?
Your expression caught on camera told its own story —
resignation threatening to show
eyes glazed while your mind wandered off
piecing fiction alongside gleanings from
life’s hard-edged wisdom.

Losers and winners mingle just the same —
such dividing lines are arbitrary.
Dead authors sell as well as any living
and the shelves of books burn slowly —
words flicked away like ash.