The Art of Poetry

There is a dirt road stagnating somewhere in the stale heat of Texas,
a road which goes nowhere and comes from somewhere.
One day, two travelers stumbled upon each other from opposite directions.
One was a murderer who was going nowhere,
the other, a poet who came from somewhere.
Said the murderer, "Choose your words wisely, Poet,
for these shall be your last."
"I am a poet!" cried he with a huff.
"Every word spoken is chosen with the utmost care and precision."
"And yet you waste your final breath upon the obvious.
I am disappointed."
The murderer clucked and shook his head.
"Oh, do not fret for me, random sir.
Through my words I shall remain exalted, immortal,
a revered constellation in the literary sky.
Through my words shall I evermore exist."
The poet smiled, truly beamed.
The murderer paused, then smiled too.
"You are loved.
When people hear of what I've done,
fire will singe the edges of their hearts for eternity.
Through their hate, so too shall I infinitely exist."
"Well spoken!" cried the poet with a grim countenance.
The murderer nodded his head with satisfaction.
"Now you are afraid to die."
"Not so," replied the poet,
"I am vexed that you, a feared destroyer,
are as well spoken as I, a beloved poet."
"What can I say?" the murderer said with a malicious grin.
"You inspire me."
His tone was mocking.
The poet smiled serenely.
The murderer pointed the gun at the poet's head.
"Death is an art."
"So it is," replied the poet.
Smoke swirled languidly from the tiny silver pistol.
The murderer gasped and fell to his knees.
His eyes journeyed upwards in awe towards the poet's face,
for the murderer had become the murdered.
His gun slipped from his grasp
as blood slowly began to trickle from his wound.
As the murderer fell the rest of the way to the ground
with a thud and a sigh,
his last breath stirring the dirt beneath him,
a startled O frozen on his lips,
the poet blew on the end of his pistol.
"I've always wanted to do that," he said.
As the dirt and blood
congealed beneath his latest creation,
he turned and walked away,
whistling a cowboy tune.

Copyright © 2002 by Elizabeth Ann Lopez

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