The Kiss of the Coffin Lid (or An Evening's Inventory)

[billy]

i never take the person in the poem to be the writer.
the following lines are a gem;

I content myself with Stevie Smith,
her childish, sinister poems,
and old film clips of Truman Capote
discussing James with Groucho Marx,

while for me;

as well as this verse I’m composing
right now.

feels tacked on to fill a bit of space.
the rest of the poem

But is despair truly a crime?
I don’t know. I don’t know
very much anymore, if I ever did,
so now I wait for the furtive kiss
of the nailed down black coffin lid.

brings the poem back on track and i think the reiteration of
i don't know is perfect.

jmo

for me it doesn't need much of an edit to make it shine.