August Derleth At 100 Poem by James P. Roberts

How many more books
would you have written
granted an extra thirty-eight years?
The thought is staggering.
One hundred? Two hundred?
For you never could have
stopped, fingers
ceaselessly twitching
at a computer keyboard.
Instant delete, no more carbon
paper. E-books up the wazoo -
who could have kept up with you?
You would have needed an extra coffin,
an adjacent plot just for the books.

Or would your brain
have awakened one morning,
completely empty,
proving that words are finite
and worlds can become
as extinct as memory.