robert dickerson

To An Ancient Coin 3 - Poem by robert dickerson

Borrowed or begged
for tax or tithe
where've you not run since then-
skipped off countless palms
paid, made
pinched, shaved,
each day costing you shine
off Persian, Mede, barbarian or Greek?
Hey, babe, you are definitely antique.

Were you the wages paid
the day-laborer?
the portion rendered unto Caesar?
or just a common excise?
their tears dry, their roving done
what eyelids have you stayed?
If never to be born is the thing most blessed
to be dead a thousand years is second best.

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Poem Submitted: Monday, December 6, 2010

Poem Edited: Monday, December 6, 2010

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