Surfing

Surfing My Computer on a Snowy Morning

On an Internet list, “Five Hundred Best

Poems,” my friend has written three.

And they are not his very best, 

but they are better than all the rest. 

No mention is made of me.

I surf the twenty screens again,

the poetical hall of fame, but dare

not ask, like Robert Frost’s horse,

if some mistake left out my name.

Another list, “Five Hundred Worst,”

I don’t dare open up.  It’s not

that I fear what I might find,

but viruses are all around.  “Let

the dead bury the dead,” I say,

Maybe I won’t write today.

I still have promises to keep.  

I ought to finish my coffin this week.  

There are boards to sand and axes

to grind before I sleep.

                              —Donnell Hunter

                                            15 February 2012