Untitled

Do you ever wonder
if the poem you’re writing
is the last you’ll give a title to?
The last line,
last word,
final number in a long sequence
started with a red crayon in an eight pack set.
It’s not like a breakfast of blueberry pancakes
liberally doused in Aunt Jemima’s buttery best,
certainly missed, but
quickly forgotten over corn beef and beer.
Will it come from an ecclesiastical famine
turning pages of fresh words
into white fields of choking dust?
Or, the silent trumpet
of an angel in a checkered apron,
calling you in at long last
to wash up for eternity?
Could this be the reason
some poets write poems untitled?