Mark J. Mitchell
You put down your book. You’re old. You know—now—
that Beowulf had a man to polish
his armor. Some woman cleaned Helen’s house
and complained about Hector’s blood-soaked clothes.
Still, only the heroes dance in your head.
You don’t think of servants unless endowed
with odd names. Reading, you always suppose
you’re the brave, but know in that demolished
town, you’d be one left to bury the dead.