|Pieter Van Huys|
Alas! If it were so easy.
The llama, orgulous of his orgle,
His fifteen minutes of fame, or his hour;
Our ornaments of desire that strangely lapse
With the mere shift of a species. And thus this day
Gray and still, and the morning incomplete.
But we are spirits of another sort, which is to say
That kindness walks among us, and grief,
And uncertainty about how to greet this guest.
Do we offer him a seat, hang his black
And faded hood up on the hat rack, stand his scythe
With the umbrellas? Do we distract him with a long discourse
Concerning the rights of vegetable loves?
He is obliging, to a point, but he has a job to do.
Count this love then in the hidden book, the ledger
Suspected in the jumbled shelves just glimpsed
Behind the scowling holder of the house. We can't help thinking
Even now, that someone older, more astute,
Must be keeping score.