Joanna A. McKethan

The Last Poet

Ten poets reading over a glass of wine

One mismatched subject and verb

And then there were nine.

Nine poets collaborating at a furious rate

One used seventeen clichés

And then there were eight.

Eight poets figuratively speak of heaven

One used it as an actual place

And then there were seven.

Seven poets set up into literary cliques

One walked out on his own

And then there were six.

Six poets celebrate the joy of being alive

One fell into depression

And then there were five.

Five poets published in five journals more

One had sent simultaneously

And then there were four.

Four poets went on a competition spree

One left out a submission check

And then there were three.

Three poets determined formal verse to do

One lost iambic pentameter

Then there were two.

Two poets only, under the reddening sun

One shot the other

And then there was one.