John Lennon
died
the day she was born.
Took his last breath
by the Dakota,
as she,
a Dakota baby,
took her first.
Born without
an exceptional talent
she will never be
"more popular than Jesus."
On another
December 8th,
she walks by
a young man
--hair a bit too long
who sits against the wall
and strums a guitar.
His case yawns
open at his feet,
hungry for change.
The birthday girl
drops in crumpled bills,
the price she pays to
Imagine.
Copyright 2007 by the Tipton Poetry Journal.
All rights remain the exclusive property of the individual poet and may not be used without their permission.