that her husband is hard at hearing,
she likes to whisper to the numbskull and
leaves inaudible messages on his phone,
especially if really important.
that his wife of seven years has OCD,
he is still annoyed to no end when
the crazy nag screams into his hearing aid:
why is water in the kitchen sink again?!
Red books, green books, blue books, and yella;
Books in the attic and books in the cellar,
Stacked on the table and piled on the floor...
'Whatcha want for Christmas?'
'Books! I need some more!'
Fire engines rush to the scene
but it's too late to save the pub:
angry flames illuminate the night air
burning the old photographs on walls
of locals from years long before.
Ghosts will be gazing sadly
as the ruthless fire rages on.
The man watches with a tear in his eyes
remembering drinking here when young,
a time he seemed to be immortal.
Soon the bulldozers will arrive
to remove all traces of the tavern
yet nothing lasts forever,
even planets crumble into dust
but life goes on... as it must.
This is the section where fiction prose becomes something else. We still expect the poems to be short, though – sonnets, perhaps, or around that length at the very most.