Status Quo, the Roman, wakes with a wine
Hangover, cursing in casual, but correct Latin
Ludmilla, drunken aediles, the bar brawl—
Attitude and language cowboy, country western.
A water clock counts the ancient hours.
He chews a strip of willow bark, listens
To dormice dine in a terra cotta glirarium,
Hasn’t the foggiest he’s fantasy or B. C., years
And years pre-Jesus, the obscure crucifixion.
And there you have it: history, intrinsic time.
No need for channeling magic, the paranormal,
Only that we know from grave goods and our own
Well-worn habits the trick of glimpsing
Small lives and silence, the ripening of mice.
Indignans, cupidus, he shuts the door and trips
Down five stories to the one-way Via Aeternum,
Takes the first turn and is lost to the future,
To the auspices of water: drip, drip, drip…