RHYME Poem: Invictus, by Matt Cooper

The dusty thrift store on west Central Street.
Is where I bought the typewriter your elegy
Was written on—A gray Smith-Corona.
I feigned that Hemingway and Pamplona—

Were things I understood as you shivered.
Yourself to the heavens you delivered.
The blue marble, the road, the page not ready
For you and your soul scared so unsteady.

I drove up to see your Gran-Gran in Montana—
Listened to her smile’s Savannah
Try to shed the light on wherever you went—
Now your birthday’s just how we weep for Lent.

The long tentacle of the man of war
Jellyfish, or the thorn of Lion’s Mar—
You’re one of these now my very best friend
Even to the typewriter’s busted, buried end.

Author: poetryfest

Submit your Poetry to the Festival. Three Options: 1) To post. 2) To have performed by an actor 3) To be made into a film. View all posts by poetryfest