Nineveh Remains Poem by Mason Maestro

The archaeologist broke his pick
In the forty-foot hole as he hit a brick
He’s waited long, since ‘91
Prior to that, he had found none
Of what he’d nearly struck
By day’s end they’ll load in the truck

He’s Portuguese, he’s 41
A slave to bourbon, he’s the son
Of an import/ export middle man

Examine the surface
Clay tablets- they all
Had seen the furnace
They don’t see the harm
To join their forces to interpret the marks

They’re Sumerian, not all intact
In cuneiform, pen of Akkad
Of a place, what’s left of Nineveh

The dig paid out handsomely well
As for work- he could no-longer dwell
In excavating another site
And the blonde colleague with mid-height
Despite the fight from the other night

Back to Lisbon, now 42
A slave to cognac, and the Jew
Who’s just employed him as his frying pan