Sean Elliott
Ajax
Spilt oxen blood cannot appease my spirit:
you glitter in my armour like a god,
I walk the riverbank and find it odd
how smooth talk steals the prize from silent merit.
Each night the trucks deliver barrelled oil
less slick than you; my madness gone, I hear
the rigging shudder and the cranes change gear
as other wars bring in a different spoil.
No doubt the generals keep some men like you
for Expediters, nimble-tongued and bright
enough to sidestep trouble. Let your bread
be thrown to other ghosts and may you rue
your plausibility. It is not right
to harm a noble man, alive or dead.
Page(s) 23
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