Another Troy - Poem by Scott Minar
Don't think it's the only city
To fall flat on its face
Or off a horse's back
Onto a ground hard as flint.
My father bent to a factory's wheel
As an axel,
And worked his way out
Of this world with a smile
Exactly like a motorcycle's fender.
He liked cigarettes and sleeping late.
He liked standing in a field with a chocolate
And his thoughts. Like Hector
He loved to ride, to circumnavigate
His city in a chariot
And dream his wife and children
From an afterlife he imagined
That came true,
As if the Sybil spoke it too.
But really it was just his voice
Warning us, the city he left behind,
That destruction was imminent,
That the air was a kind of smoke
Into which we might breathe,
That the wind in our faces was not a god
But something better
Down that lonesome Mycenaean road.
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