unwritten

they too slouched
in their
easy
chair on a Friday
evening, staring
numbly
at the tv
with a cat on
their lap.
once full of Shakespeare
and wordsworth,
Ginsberg
and Miller,
now this.
these fallen stars,
these rising
moons,
these setting
suns.
each wandering
at midnight
into grocery stores
lit like
tinsel
easing a cart
down
the sterile
aisles.
searching
for something,
anything to fill
them.
all words they
were to write
gone unwritten,
the poems
and plays, the novels.
the years fallen
away too quickly.
the tree empty
of leaves
with one quick
harsh wind.