The Finishing Touch (Poetry)

This may be the very last
poem I write
the point has been turned
and the end is in sight
the old shop’s closing down
the final customer’s gone
and the empty shelves sag
with no thought to hold on

Who came and who went
in this fictional life
with a pen sharpened thin
to the ghost of a knife
and the page like a road
and my vehicle’s soul
bumping on back and forth
under reckless control

I’m losing their names
the friends and the foes
in the dwindling hope
a lost traveller knows
while words keep safe distance
refuse me their aid
in the chill forest night
inner wounds on parade

Maybe a rhyme
gives the finishing touch
to my journal of dreams
that failed to mean much
there’s no job for a poet
whose counterfeit crime
scratches grain-dark in wood
so indelibly mine

The thunder last night
had me counting my stock
I watched the hands move
on a cheap bedside clock
the room made no comment
I flicked off the light
there’s a chance this will be
the last poem I write