A Thing of Beauty
Lit by autumn’s blunt, gray evening sky
I sit beneath the Dome.
There is the glass view of the heavens
Broken only by splattered bird shit.
The gypsy looking man plays a gypsy sounding
Tune on a gypsy looking guitar.
My coffee shakes at hand’s touch, it
Goes cold. The journey too far.
And so, with steadying cigarette, I grip the
Pen, sight the line and start again.
And there below me, among the ants, is the
Source of my unsteady hand.
Majestic stone pillars and regal gates guard
The lake and the people’s Green.
I never knew a thing of beauty could look
So ugly and still be so grand.
