His leaden haze puts Hobo in mind
of his old pal Willie
(Wallace), in D.C. –
simple homeless vet, friend
of Feathered Eagle. You could find
him, of a morning
(borderline bored) leaning
against that sunny wall behind
the taco place. Told me once
about the time he met
the President. Let
me have a word, sir... since
you’re headed to church, will you pray for me?
& old Bush says – C’mon along
brother, we’ll sing a song
together. Man-fest, I guess. Destiny.
So they trooped on down to the Cathedral
hand in hand, them two
old hands. You know
there’s lots of masonry in the capital.
Big maze of marble, curious flame-
mostly – but I was there when King came,
for the March, back in ’63.
Love that constancy
in his treble prophecy,
you know? Beauty, truth & rarity
– rarin’ to go, that meek milkman.
Love has her reasons,
I reckon. The season’s
colder now. WW long flown –
but sometimes I see his ghost wing
past the tyrant’s house.
Or maybe that was Phoenix.
I do get confused. Wish I could sing
with the Prez too – like Maid Marion
underneath Robby Lincoln’s eye,
so redbreast mild (sigh).
Pall-bearers’ props (sable, crimson)
& the trumpets & the drums... the boots
in the saddle, all backwards.
Buried bee buzzwords,
scribbled graphs, epitaphs. Hoots
from the midnight owl – soft whisper
over dim cedars.
Her grey eye engenders
all this concrete into something... suffer
the little sea-change, children, croons
Columbia. The statue
called La Paix (flew
out of Normandy, wounded) from dunes
of military cemetery, comes
to life... Hermione
her name, Queen for a Day.
Rich & strange now. Sound the drums.
Sophie at the Raptor Center