Hymn to Apollo

by Sean Butner

And as the morning light splashes off the lapping waves
Four figures creep slowly through the dappled lake-side shade.
A parade of blanched pantalones, painted
With dark lines indicating they are
Not now who they often are,
Processed with an elderly weightiness
That recalls the quiet gravity of all
That they will not pass down.

The line comes to an uneasy halt,
Face to foot, proud snouts stepped on evenly
Like repeating patterns adorning a spittoon,
Chamberpot, or other vulgar piece of houseware.
Still moving, an image forever repeating.
And then, as the dewy grass folds to the wind
One by one, with a dignified slop,
They bow their strained necks from sun
To shore, and plop into the mucky bay
Swimming off as they often were again.