I write because I am
the reincarnation of Aeschylus.
Correction: I am Aeschylus.
But I have only two lines. Well,
had. I made them three.
Then I made them two again.
Now I have —
seven! On summer days I wonder,
what future do I have
as Aeschylus? Outside, the sky
slumps around in its grey caftan
complaining about the weather.
And, sigh, no cobbles, no sparrows
below the window. No artichokes,
no edgy fringes in the wind, no
stoa. And pines? Not for miles.
I have a ticket for tonight’s train
but fear I will be late. You know how it is
with trains like that. Somewhere
a future is unfolding
and I, Aeschylus, must — must file a —
Meanwhile the sky loiters,
lowering its judgements.
No consolation. I bet you thought
I was going to say “toga”
back there on line eleven.
I’ve found my best work is done
at higher elevations — there, at least, are trees
thin enough a wind can slip through