The old guy, angular, drowsing on the Terrace -
W.W. Brown, maybe - but you don't know his name.
Sharing your misty bench, contemplating the same
stone profile, our mutual Moses.

Every wilderness deserves its prophet
as every home its closet skeleton
and fevered heart. Here's one
for us - old crusty Roger, obdurate

proclaimer. Independent Man. He's golden
now, with trident, atop the capitol;
he's every candid candidate's surreal
comparison, and paragon, and so on.

But these are only idle riddles for someone
no one knows - not me, not Mr. Brown,
nor that sterling mirror-image of a clown
dressed like a giant bird, traipsing through town...

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