CRUSHED GRAPES
Did they really think
the gods would smile forever on
their refined satisfactions,
that the furies were not gathering over
their endless banquet?
Did they really not notice
their nemeses holding
tools and trays,
the talons sheathed,
the slaver of a fang?
Were they not dismayed
by smiling tight lips,
the twitching finger in the white glove?
Did they really think their thugs
would stick around?
Who will care about their cries,
their mess,
regret their passing?
No comments:
Post a Comment