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On the day of his funeral,
fourteen mourners stood in the sun
and thought it might rain.

"It's such a bloody waste," his brother said.
"Such talent, such potential, and for what?"
"For poetry," their mother sobbed. "He thought
the world would listen. Oh, how wrong he was;
so sad. We tried to tell him." And they had.

Poetry is dead, they said. A poet cannot feed his family.
Being of no further use, he died in the spring and,
left alone with such abundance, the cat ate him.

Fourteen mourners left his bones interred
with his worthless words. By the grave,
each had carefully positioned their Hallmark platitudes,
as floral wreaths wilted in the heat.

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