Sonnet: The Meaning of History
by John Kendall Hawkins
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In the next iteration of our fires --
flames built high on distant beaches in vain,
where men rip up men, cast their bones to pyres
in orgiastic rituals of pain --
there'll be no Helen, no swift ships to sea.
We'll say let them have her, beauty doesn't last
Who'd give up HBO or C.O.D.
for some feminine ideal from the past?
The new horse will be shiny, inviting,
Air BnB will features its machine-
made precision, folks will smile, reciting
Homer's Iliad, and enact a scene.
Boffo Greeks plop from the horse's poop chute,
when Achilles shows up in a zoot suit.
