—CAN YOU HEAR THE PEOPLE SING?

 

 

Dead Poet’s Society

 

The dead poets crack 

open a bottle even though 

Bukowski isn’t there. 

It’s vodka with a label 

that says Fascist Tears. 

Everyone around the table 

is famous, legendary, yet 

they all look like children 

about to rush to recess, 

grins as wide as canyons. 

Emily toasts to Robert, 

Maya to Walt, Rumi to Rilke. 

They shoot one down, then 

another and another before 

throwing their shot glasses 

at the wall. “Fuck that guy,” 

they sing in unison.