top of page

3 Poems by Richard LeDue

An Amateur Poet Takes a Break From Life

Sometimes, I do a great Leonard Cohen impression

because I'm a natural at playing dead,

but most of us are.

Because I'm a natural at playing dead,

I only sing in the shower

and mouth my poems to an empty room.

But most of us are

trying to triumph at something on Sunday mornings,

when there's nothing better to do.

So Obviously Dying

We still only have a handful of earth

filling palms best left unread

because the ending was ruined

long before we were ever born,

and the firs watch my house

like someone trying not the stare

at another so obviously dying.

There's still reasons for war too,

for guts knocked from stomachs,

as if they belong in the dirt,

for hatred to massage the back of my eyes

until red is my favourite colour,

for boring speeches that bleed away minutes,

only to become memorable due to the applause.

The crimson “sold” sticker murders

the “For Sale” sign on a front lawn,

while the foundation cracks,

but the roof was reshingled last May,

when hammers hammered so much,

they were successful in a poor imitation

of gunshots winning and losing an endless battle.

Deaths as deep as an ice cream scoop,

where a crowd's whisper is malnourished

enough to remind one of humanity's

insatiable hunger

we try desperately to satisfy with desserts

on Sundays or free refills on coffee,

while the clinking of stirring spoons

crack open a shared silence,

so to sound like the truest love

poem, instead of page 19

in a corpse's collected works,

which lives on a coffee table

until a thrift store purgatory

proves the devil prefers best sellers

and god a bigger fan of fiction.


bottom of page