I throw my pen down
in disgust.
What’s the point?
What’s the fuss?

Surely earthy answer’s lust
doesn’t rely on human dust.

Eyeing pen that eyes me back,
conversation looms
but without facts.

“What’s the fuss?” I ask its lack,
“Surely people know my death

will separate my questions asked,
god on high, does anything last?”

Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
© Copyright 11/17/03