Classic Poem

The dull conclave of crows'-footed faces
Twitches as the man with one dollar enters;
It moves a soilured delicate hand, as if
Displaying a marketable emotion on a string.

Hear the tom-toms, smell the warm rank beer,
See the curve of the synthetic waggle,
Let ancient visions impinge the modern retina,
Polish the image of a burnished Phrygia.

For I have heard that somewhere, on desolate
And traditionally inspiring shores,
Small ladies, possessing subtile bellies, knew heroes
Whose creed brooked no chaste asyndeton;

And somewhat later, in the cool of a fern wood,
One heard the grimly clatter of shields
Who threaded tapestries in the sheathing dark;
The courtyard rang with a feutering of spears....

The emotion is marketable indeed
In spite of crows'-feet, which Strato doesn't mention:
Showing the contemporary irrelevancy of myth
And the understanding of a man with one dollar.

Make gracious attempts at sanctifying Jenny,
Supply cosmetics for the ordering of her frame,
Think of her as Leda, as a goddess,
Emptying a smile on Redkey, Indiana.