How much like Lincoln’s it’d be (to judge by the proud walk),
if after a sprinkling of salt, he’d be placed between scripture leaves like a maven on a throne sitting bony-kneed by the potted groves of Lahore or Kenya,— And winds in a reflecting pool how much calmer they’d be if presidentials before him had worn pastoral robes instead of pendent scarves, and shiny crystals over the Congress stopped tipping their light (for once!) to the toothy lords of Virginia
And how those Irish smiles would finally cease smiling
(and keep plates clinking) if toasts frozen at eye level and one too many stately balls & collars, straps that had lost their starch were a prelude to council or a good night’s sleep
And light, unflappable a bird as he is, springing to the hoops,
how nicely he’d give us back the sky (if anyone that slim or equable or cool could, in robes or a Tux)— his dear unflappable sky
(2008)
