Classic Poem

This, then, had been his destiny from birth—
To desiccate life's pageant to a phrase—
Pity and terror, hunger, madness, mirth
Congealed in “Man Shoots Five in Murder Craze.”
He'd written poems once. He wrote no more.
His wits had chilled in stereotypes too long
To kindle now one glittering metaphor.
His pulse kept time to headlines, not to song.

It was a sorry business, none knew better,
And there were moments he was more than half
Persuaded to shrug loose the ultimate fetter …
Save that he knew too well his epitaph,
And somehow could not stomach quite the crass
Brutality of “Scribe Ends Life with Gas.”