Things die, let's face it. Even things we wish would hang around, go out of fashion, become obsolete, or are superseded by something bigger, better, badder, stronger, faster, or cooler.

Fins on cars, drive-in movies, tight sweaters and automobiles made of all metal, things of the past. Dinosaurs. Extinct.

Well, they may be gone, but they do not have to be forgotten, and they do not have to exist only in museums.

They can live in poetry as well.


Rotary dial telephones
Holed up in abandoned houses
like shut-ins or fugitives.

Music captured on vinyl grooves or magnetic tape,
Saturday morning cartoons,
Victims of bloodless coups by round-tables of politicians,
Cameo brooches worn by ladies to be.

How I would love to explore the mysteries of UHF and VHF,
Ghosted forms defying static to entertain me,
The last throes of their death more fun than not.

These are creatures who leave no fossils
No trace that they were once with us
A part of us, like the dodo,
Digested and consumed;
Gone the way of the plays of Sophocles,
Or the cursive Q,
The identity of Prussia,
Whispers from history books
Riding on telegraph wires.

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