Goodbye, My Fancy

Saying goodbye to Wenny, December third,
my El nuevo notebook sin espiral.
Awaiting words.

Words proclaiming I’ll get my just reward
after I’ve painted the town and had a ball,
saying goodbye to Wenny, December third;

words like a steel suit for me to gird
myself in, because I call
myself a knight of the sword.

Awaiting mention in the Rocky Ford
book of Who’s Who-est of Them All.
They’ll put in a good word

for Dada and the Theater of the Absurd,
words flailing in a rhyming free-for-all,
saying goodbye to Wenny, December third.

Well, you’re a rare bird,
Wenny, always gunning for a fall,
writing “Goodbye” in Wenny, December third,
the final word.