At Saqqara, Outside Memphis

Changing a single letter,

the sorrowful pathetic

slips---slide---sloughs---slogs into

the laughably bathetic,

a bitter old man (who will never outlive

his existential uselessness,

nor ever admit, much less understand,

his cosmic insignificance)

stumbles into the shadow of Djoser's pyramid;

and squats on the ground like a dog dropping turds,

and begins to gather sand into chaotic piles

that the afternoon breezes pull down with a puff.

And he snears the ancient geometry---

those arcane postlates contained in ancient scroll---

that raise this massive edifice

towering in the sky above him,

not even cognizant of his temporary heaps

that collapse in less time than a fart needs to pass.

And he curses that smug bastard, Imhotep,

that Poet of the Artistry of Architecture

for the major and multisyllabic words of his drafts

by which he raised this enduring monument,

the force and fullness of his intellect's thought

given the presence of eloquence,

in the form and balance of polished stone.



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