Reading Dregs

Reading Dregs

There is someone
who used to know me

surreptitiously read
my Sloopy poem, and
hoped I’d jump from
my cliff devoid of Love.

Yes, it’s true, there
might be gold on a speculation
about a posthumous artist
recognized in death for
some rejected style that
has some analyst with credentials
crying on its bones now when
a good paper can be written.

When has exhumation
become pretty. Maybe

I should have fleshed it out
a little better, been
a better song
been a bird, because

I can not fly
or fly fish.

I’ve gone done by the river
to pick up leaves, watch bears
catch fish in glory splash, so I
might take leave mildly by the river
flaky crumbly, a waste like dregs
not even a beer anyone would
ever want to drink.

— Douglas Gilbert