Dream of 'Nevermore' 

Old friends from seventies 

came and used to hear me 

recite "how old friends the birds were always right" 

Til i strove to avoid their false 

avid by hiding with quill, 

word for pen, in the gracious 

spacious sunlit tub of fading 

fad porcelain, iron claw feet painted white, ancient delight; 

Still they'd knock and come in, two by twos but as though in retinue, inquiring of one another 

as though i t'weren't there, 

"you too have come for friend's recitation 

of something important, no? 

Or for some music of significant 

meaning of social content 

in context decisive, no?" 

But really not, anything goes but listening at all was apparent from their countenance by all accounts so 

Next stanza arrived i see outside 

from across the street of the building 

where i lived, that night standing 

before its windowframes in flames, 

and popping hiss of christmas 

ornaments and standard bland 

lights, each frame ablaze of dark apartment rooms while inside 

i closed the heavy gift of guestbook 

with sad eyes, hearing the tale of the dream 

of droll prophets who knew none called friends 

could talk about how no one ever listens. 

Hidden performance gnomic whistles 

again, again and again.