Some of My Small Deaths
Found a dead poet on Twitter,
decided to follow her
only to discover she was still alive.
Not my first mistake.
Once wrote a love poem on a used napkin,
then left it on the table-
the waitress later told me
my rhymes were predictable
and my images weak like the coffee
(free refills whenever you bought
a meal). I learned nothing
except it’s okay sometimes to skip the tip.
Another Canadian Poem
Blank page white like snow,
and there’s a polar bear,
tracking someone who thought
they didn’t need to sleep with their rifle.
They probably tasted delicious too:
head swatted off, left to freeze,
but the bulk of meat digested,
those nutrients the greatest contribution
which could help that endangered beast-their fame a front page long
in a local paper- hell, it’s more than I got.
Written for Someone Who’ll Never Read This
Too easy to pretend nothing has ever evolved,
ignore our hairy ancestors making tools
from stone, constantly looking behind
themselves for a stalking sabre-tooth,
the safest place beside a fire,
gift from gods we’ve long forgotten
or classified as myth,
then there’s the fish who dreamed
of opposable thumbs among
mushroom cloud thoughts,
the water too calm for such ambition.
Yes, our existence is no more potent
than a mirage, our thirst prehistoric-
then there’s the future:
floating brains, who argue
over the meaning of “ribbed for
her pleasure,” or maybe the cockroaches
will have a turn,
wax poetic about bread crumbs,
while inventing deities in the dark.
Richard LeDue was born in Sydney, Nova Scotia, Canada, but currently lives in Norway House, Manitoba with his wife and son. His poems have appeared in various publications throughout 2019, and more work is forthcoming throughout 2020, including a chapbook from Kelsey Books.