The Sunday Poem: All Stories Are Like This
Pliny tells a story of a ghost who wished his bones dug up;
He came at night, a haunt and clanking spirit, chained,
To scare the renters out of his apartment in the night.
But a philosopher took the spot, since it was cheap,
And worked till late at night. Clanking was obnoxious,
So when the ghost appeared, he made it wait.
Finally, his letters done, he rose and marked the spot
Where the skeleton arose bechained from garden plot.
The next day, of course, a putrid corpse was found.
Pliny himself, much less said philosoph, are much alike;
Both beyond their moldering days, alive only in the write.
And yet, who reads Pliny? None. Athenodorus? Who?
Somewhere there’s a plot where ancient Romans rise,
And clank their way to knock on busy students’ doors.
Each serves as Pliny to his ghost, mostly for a grade.
And here I serve as Pliny too, retelling ancient renters’ tales
Because my fancy caught upon the grave; if Pliny can’t,
Then must I create small verse to be a ghost for us.