THE LOST EMPIRE, MY ASS

the Empire sat impassively in the thick air
aware of all who clamor to come there
aware of those who mock its victories
the little people with little words
on an imagined platform no longer
before a crowd of adoring co-eds
with shampooed hair, eyes designed by
media royalty in Paris or Milan, or
before a room with background music
floating from the 1820s on a cloud
of powdered wigs, new men laundered
and fit with tans, starched from the desert
of their employment, no, sorry Derek.
this Empire is not defeated by any army
of warriors however Godly or dressed
for combat success, however full of poetry
full of nature sounds or hawk breath
no hard arms or thoughtful themes no furtive designs
no james bond-like character no kung fo
can pull down the dress of this Empire
and discover any funeral pom-poms
no skinny white legs no hard knees or
hard elbows no rude awakenings
no Saharan silence or dragonfly cry
these cliffs are of centuries and steep beyond
the mere rappel of parlor words
the beautiful hills are everlasting infinite
alive with the sound of a golden wind
no great swell of another teeming nation
can upset my Empire, at night it never rests
the fragments hold the center in the light
with a revolutionary mind we still see
Washington astride his fine strong horse
placing his fine firm boot on the envy of the waves
welcoming others still yearning to be free