As the first one fell,

They all shouted: ‘Missed!’

 

As the second one fell,

They all shouted: ‘Missed!’

 

As the third one fell –

 

Enraged, he drove to the outskirts,

Eager to conjure up the words

For death throes of expired luck,

To paint the smell of burning flesh.

 

But no words arrived. Nothing came.

Remains were pulled from the remains.

 

Later on, seeing his notebook

And observing his tear-stained face,

A crowd looked to him for answers.

One asked: ‘can we see your poem?’

 

‘There is no poem,’ he replied.

 

The crowd dispersed, feeling short-changed.

 

‘Bit of a washout, aren’t you?

Try thinking of us!’ someone cried.