ultra rich & strange


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-
&-turtleshell designs.
Defunctive tombstones,
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

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