— after Quevedo
By the antlers
and squeaky shoes
How it coughs, hard
like a coal miner, but never uses
the blue handkerchiefs which peek
from both breast pockets — crisp,
just for show.
You won’t find greatness
where the crowds promenade, staring
and ordinary. Not
in this rinky-dink
town — it was run out
on a rail, asthma notwithstanding.
Check the out-of-print
shoeboxes on the editor’s desk;
look where the north wind stirs
that sleep of leaves
you never got around to raking —
greatness does not follow
so you won’t find it
where it’s been; like Rome
in Rome, oh Pilgrim,
greatness has already come
and gone; only the quotidian
remains and endures.
This piece originally appeared in the Spring 2003 issue of the graduate student journal Lumina.