“When an Old Poet Dies Her Words Remain”: Tribute to Mina Scott 1985
No fame, no fortune.
Words scattered, recycled.
Last days in a nursing home
Racked with pain, immobile
Letters curled and lifted
Written when viable
Published and shared
Jotted down by a teen at the library
One line repeated later by a twenty-something
During coffee with a friend
No fame, no fortune
Words in a journal
On a shelf at Goodwill
Bought by a thirty-something
Read under a tree in a park
Connected by life over ink
Unseen contractured old poet
A blot of ink on a white sheet
Her cursive filled hope folding back on itself
Words on a scrap of paper
Inside a Bible by Her bed as she exhaled
“When an old poet dies, their words remain”
Because
I had fame
Because
I had fortune
anytime
any-somethings
picked me up
And read me
in their voice
sherrystruthtofiction 