Classic Poem

I have seen the poets of the West,
I have seen them walking past store windows,
I have seen them cross an avenue,
stop for a red light,
read an advertisement,
buy some clothes,
I've even seen some entering a church.

Telling who they are is almost always easy.
They wear a Grecian mask over their eyes,
a certain air of Goethe around their brows,
a bit of Dante or Lord Byron
sniffed up their noses
or darkened in under the eyes.

Their profession is illustrious and ancient,
once upon a time even distinguished,
when you could say:
“I am a poet.”
and all believed that something was happening

But the scene has changed.

Orpheus could reappear in this century,
sing and sing
to the limits of his larynx,
and he wouldn't start the heart of an old lady
The chorus line of Muses
could come out wearing nothing,
run through old burlesque routines or arty dances,
and no producer would accept them.
Achilles with his wingèd feet
they'd knock off with a bullet to the heel.
And Homer, poor blind fool,
they'd make him watch T.V., so it'll teach 'em;
or, he knowing enough, make him peddle glasses,
or beg with empty hands outstretched
on a dark corner of the street.

This thing isn't what it used to be:
Who can break down Wall Street with a poem?