After Me, Applause

standalone poem

While my heart still beat,
I hawked words
for spare change.
Few would take them
unless they matched
their rigid mold.

Scribbles from my core
got traded for screens.
Pain didn’t fetch a dime,
unless it belonged to strangers.
Mine couldn’t buy
a swig of wine
or a stale loaf.

They’ll murmur:
“He was the real thing.”
When I’m dust.
When soil folds me in,
my truest kin.

Then they’ll churn out books,
stage poetry vigils,
drape sentiment
like a cheap veil
over my bare bones.

I won’t be there.
To witness
their sudden love,
now that I demand
nothing in return.