Lincoln, smallpox creeping into his blood,
sits in cramped bedroom, scratching final words
on notepaper. For days, he’s understood
this could mean all: war, nation. If they’ve heard—
the 20,000—a faltering phrase,
the country’s psyche might crack after such
horrid maiming, loss of dear lives. He prays.
He stands, whispers the lines, then asks his crutch—
William, his valet—“Be my audience.”
Neither man can sense this sacred moment—
not yet—how the Muse breathes with reverence
over each etched syllable. Feeling spent,
he must move on, hope his brief speech assures
them somehow. He breathes deep, steps out the door.
Roger Armbrust
April 15,
2014
