Trounce. Another wonderful word
on a slippery slope. Another word, like obfuscate
with one toe in the grave.
Take bells and angels’ wings:
every time a word is born, another word dies.
There’s only so much room in the world for words,
which is why widdershins and whoopee have to go.
I can’t tell you how sanguine I am,
knowing that the world will never be overrun by words.
I won’t be crowded by curmudgeons,
never squeezed by geezers.
All that space left for lugubrious, persnickety,
words with big shoulders and pointy elbows.
You won’t see them shedding tears for the airgonaut,
who bowed his head in his balloon
and sailed away.