Babble On

The man in the audience
would not stop talking.
I gave the nod,
and the poetry goons went over.

They stuck ballpoint pens
under his fingernails,
but still he kept on talking.

They took out a three-ring hole punch
and perforated his knees,
but still he kept on gabbing.

Finally, I read a selection of poems
by Rod McKuen.

He gurgled,
like the belch of a water cooler,
keeled over
into a puddle of his own words,
and drowned.

© Fred Longworth