Anonymously they came for his bones
hoping they would still hang with some flesh.
‘Blah blah’ said one, and ‘Yes yes’ said the other.
Little too-mortal teeth ripping into the poems
they knew were not the truth of it.
‘Oh yes’ said one, and ‘Blah blah’ said the other.
Soon they were part of a pack that tore
and gnashed at the excerpted voidness.
‘Shitty shitty shit’ they all screamed, ‘Shitty shit.’
While Jack laid back and paid attention
to all they did not know in themselves.
‘I’m writing now’ he said, ‘after much excitation.’
They went back to their grief with bellies
too full to lift their heads and confess.
M T C Cronin and Peter Boyle
Jack Gilbert Gets ‘Foeted’
1 August 2014