Detour

Alan L. Boegehold

On an Isthmian plain
I met an ant
mandibles clamped
on a gossamer wing
wrestling it homeward
in chemical traces

a curl of air
on an aileron
spun him small pinnace
into the sky
cart-wheeling erratic
black dragon-fly
twenty-two seconds

back on the ground
formic again
he scrambles in circles to find
a place for diaphanous fodder

he cannot remember
when he was an angel

Chanson Vespasienne

Alan L. Boegehold

Vespasian, the Emperor
Innards spent,
Smiled his soldierly smile,
Looked at his comrades-at-arms,
And said, “O dear,”
From his bed, “I fear
I’m becoming a god.”
His soul sped straight away.

Did these words
Lightly given
Waft him to heaven,
Canny Etruscan,
Whose coins did not smell?
A sort of temple
Whose music is tinkle
Enshrines Titus still.

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