The Dying of 1958 *
.
Not men them flaming in the rose gardens
but cubs who roared for the last time
beneath the north rains.
They shouldered history
like fruit crates borne across the mire
through the filthy schools, the brothels of the south.
.
I know them.
I know chivalry
dignity
the precepts flowing
over the backseats of taxis.
*
