Richard Epstein

Our Venerable Bud

You see the point at which he stood his ground,
Marked by that placard there, Historical
Site, though sprayed over with graffiti now —
BanjowDuce and Griebous4Life4Life.
Imagine what he felt here, as the throng,
Harnessed in leather, harpy herd, came on,
Cavorting in rage and divvying like foam,
Filthy and horned and bigoted. He stood,
Yet still he still stood, and spoke aloud of “vorpal,”
Lit. to the last and buried by a scrum
Which never could have seen the bird of night
Enter the mead-hall through a window, pass
The tallow-smoking lights, the eerie skalds,
And egress into darkness once again.
He might have said all this, if he had lived.

Up & Down the Backbone of Our Land

A little town believes it is immune
From simony and tsores; lesser folks,
The big ’uns from the City, pay to fret —
They’re born to fret, conformed to fret; the shapes
Of worry make the fortune of their faces.
A little town does not believe that woe
Is overnighted by the sun: the bill
Of lading comes due elsewhere. Yes, they know
About the sparks and how they fly, but still —
A little town? Our lucky life, they say.
Their daughters, up to Megaplex, keep pails
Bedside to catch their tears, while sparking boys
Think murder is an artform, and their spite
Colors the closet red. The roads escape,
Then disappear into an empty plain.
And yet the cornflakes keep on selling out,
The hotdog buns replenished. Say, the Post-
Gazoo is covering the Aphid Fest.
You’d think, the kind of life a small town leads,
Pies in each pocket, cakes in every bed,
You’d think the roads ran both ways, but they don’t.