They seem to ignore him now, love, this sure
marble god honored for a century—
copied by Michelangelo, Durer,
praised by Byron and Goethe—yet still he
stands with grace, gazing forward, grasping small
remain of his bow, ruffled cloak clinging
across his chest and left arm. He’s not all
that brought us here to Rome, yet I’m singing
praise for his battered right knee, scraped and scarred
as a football lineman’s. How he’s survived
ages, wars, and for Napoleon starred
in the Louvre. Perhaps we two can revive
his image with our blogs’ sonnets, essays,
and dialogues. Recall him as we pray.
Roger Armbrust
December 31,
2012
