ultra rich & strange

MILITARY CEMETERY

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.

2.7.17

Sophie at the Raptor Center