Sonnet: Second Fiddle Blues
by John Kendall Hawkins
Ol' Nero was fiddling again beneath
the moon, falling Pax Americana
in the background, and Copacabana
marimba gourds were shaking their hen's teeth,
as if in celebration of how rare
it is to find a good empire these days
with fire insurance and fireworks displays,
when the known world began to disappear.
This time round the tycoons make their escape
through hatches booby birds made in the mud
of Heraclitus's drained river, blood
is all that remains from Mother Earth's rape.
The experiment just didn't work out;
should have stayed in Eden -- without a doubt.