Tarred roads starting to buckle,
dogs crawling to exile
beneath porches, bird cry stilled
after the racket, racket, racket of June,
I kneed into the branches
of the heavy-waisted maple
commanding the front yard
like some guard tower of Troy.
rolled thuggishly down the Point,
followed by medaled platoons
of wavering veterans, police in snowy
summer dress, dead-eyed public
servants—hands clasped above
their heads or waving to crowds
that cheered as the defeated do.
I would have cheered, too,
had they not reminded me
of the Greeks, most heroes
dead, hardly one not battle scarred,
taking their victory lap
as Achilles had done,
and from their chariots throwing candy
to the children of the Troia.