Not Lennon’s Imagine

Imagine the death of a man

One man.
Fighting for his last breath before he succumbs to finality.

Imagine a sight
The last sight
of one in a car-wreck or
a cancer patient, or
someone who’s just
had it and holds a gun
to his temple.

Imagine hands
Not a poet or carpenter’s hands.
Only hands that are wanting,
Wanting answers but receiving nothing.

We wait and wait and wait while the clock ticks each moment away
Every second that cannot be recaptured—every second forgotten while man is
wrapped up in his playground creation.


Sense the rambling of two three-piece suits at the bus stop,
Conversations add to zero when nothing substantial is

Small talk is bullshit, a reason to flap your jaw about anything…events no
one cares about.

Another excuse to justify existence while playing the pathetic game.

Flirt with the secretary, lie to your boss, and go to lunch and gurble with
your comrades about simulated death.

Stroll and gurble…gurble and stroll.

All the way to bank, which coincidently--stands next to a graveyard.

Dan Provost is 41 years old and reads a lot of poetry. Some of his favorites include:
Bukowski, Lyn Lyfshin, RC Edrington, JJ Campbell, and Arthur Rimbald. He has been
published in numerous poetry e-zines and small print magazines.

© 2004 Underground Voices