Janice Worthen

A song for John Lennon

The odd knowledge of rooms

filled with values still wrapped,

dust-heavy, bought on an impulse,

forgotten.  Possessing non-possessions.

Possessed as in, my heart is a bank

vault.  My thumb is a book.  My

tongue is an antique table, double stained.

Next door, downstairs, everywhere

are the rooms, are the treasures.


Summation.  Summation.  Summation.


And how can you deny the impulse

to others?  Unable to own you,

they bought all your music.

Unable to own you, you

bought things you would

have loved.  When you died

they grieved then celebrated.

The relief of no longer having

to own.