I have seen many
Such as he;
Beribboned costume
(More clown than ringmaster),
Cat-of-Cheshire smile,
Loud voice that
Carries no authority.
Yet he will say,
He has borne the sword
From cold fields
To these strewn-with-paper tiles.
I am, perhaps, too used to keeping
Rough-touch ropes tight around
Memories that would otherwise
Have me vulnerable, weeping, cold.
Too used to resisting the
Smith’d-of-gold poisons;
To watching too,
Too many young people
Take their too-soon leaves.