My Ancestors Pondered Concrete

by Agrimmeer DeMolay

my ancestors pondered concrete

even after it set, surfaces still as cliffs,

facing sunrises and storms. their works

inched skyward, ducts funneling toward the thirsty,

who enjoyed the fruits

of their exactitude. the laurel-headed

dwelled long on the color purple

believing it excited them for a reason

worth learning, ordering drunken

scholars to find out why. those ancient warriors

couldn’t sail worth a damn; so they forged

iron spikes for a ship to cling to another,

“wherever I stand is mine”. such robed folk

loved the republic until they did not,

with nominal complaint

that their senate faded,

abridged, a trunk debarked,

a lamb’s wool collected

too diligently, those olds

sated on the spoils of past wars,

wizened, nodding,

tenderhearted at last.