they lied about the leaves

they promised me
the leaves would
be mine once
they fell from
the last tree
for the last time
when the dead poets
had run out of stuff
to write about leaves
don’t get me wrong
I’ve waffled longingly
about pines and
and limes and oaks
and roots and will
do it all again when
leaf buds green but
I was promised
the last bag of
leaves to layer
my words among
the musty mould
to mature and let
them breathe new
life into my lines
then get on the
bus to Innesfree
to visit old Yeats
and complain a
bit [to Billy B]
and shout aloud
you can keep the
rows of runner
beans and stuff
but I’ve got the
last bag of leaves
so stick that in
your next sonnet
but wait for you
are dead and I’m
not so my invite
to speak at his
society has just
been cancelled
[damn] [bugger] [blast]
for now it seems
I’ve burned my
rickety bridges
they lied to me
about the last
leaves so it seems
they’re not for
sale at all and
I’m stranded here
in Innesfree
no Billy B
no money
no bus and
no leaves

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