Chivalry is dead;
The hopeful hardships of honor pass away;
There is no color, no air in the room,
No wall between us unpainted grey.
Windowless lives and mirrorless meanings,
But dust for the shifted rug, for the broom;
Ask the children of the day:
There’s silence in their leanings.
But what of Papaw,
Or Momma on the Singer sewing machine,
No rent of jean catastrophic enough;
When the principal’s paddle wasn’t mean,
But fair and just and bigger than us;
When believing was every ounce as tough
As being fightfully lean?
‘Twas why we were on the bus.
We forget ourselves:
We dress our demons and burn bridge to the past,
We carve the totem and reset the sail,
We heat the potato and pass it fast
To the wildest eyes of ungardened whim;
To what sunset should I sweat-lay the rail?
A man should know what he’d cast
As well as what’s casting him.
Music: On Jovian Clouds