Decadence

 

by Dr. William Miller

 

My Son on the Spanish Steps

 

My son went to Rome

to study, write, explore

dance clubs and ruins.

 

I told him to sit on

the “ Spanish Steps,”

talk to the travelers,

drink good, cheap wine.

 

Then, he was to find

the room where

Keats died, “the poet

of the earth,

the beating heart!”

 

That room was still

a shrine all young

poets like himself

owed a pilgrimage.

                                                             

He promised he would

but later wrote me

a different story.

 

He was about to go in,

stand by the deathbed,

when he met this

Danish girl, tall,

red-haired.

 

They spoke by looks

and gestures, a few

common words,

but well enough

to know they had

to leave that sickness,

           sadness behind.         

                                                                                                                           

                They walked through                 

a poor neighborhood,

got gladly lost,

found a wine bar

in a narrow lane.

 

They drank and drank,

not needing even

a few words

to say what they

both wanted …

 

My son’s email

ended there, but

I’m sure they kissed

more than once against

an ancient wall.

 

And that wall was

far from a room where

a poet was bled to

death, great

passions died …

 

They weren’t lovers

 on a cold urn,

but more alive

with each touch and taste,

forever young.

           

 

 

 “The Shadow” 1932

 

She bought the radio

with eggs from

a sagging wire coup.

 

Once a week, she sat

on the plank floor,

close to the dials

and yellow light.

 

A strange, thrilling

music slowly filled

the dark room …

 

She listened to this

week’s mystery

in a distant city

she’d never see.

 

With two flashing pistols,

“The Shadow” stopped

“The Black Falcon” from

ruling the world …

 

She was glad

for that hour,

the hour she forgot

about the choice

she’d soon have to make:

 

a wedding to a much

older man, tending sick

children by oil light;

 

a job in a mill

where girls grew old

at looms always booming.

 

The end was the same,

an early grave

on a red-clay hill …

 

She wanted to live

in that dark, city world

where every wrong

was made right.

 

In a black cape,

 “The Shadow” walked

a cold, windy street,

fought evil in the heart.

 

Dr. WILLIAM MILLER lives and writes in the French Quarter of New Orleans.  He has published five collections of poetry, twelve books for children and a mystery novel.