Workingman’s blues #7
By Patrick T. Reardon
Remember that story the
Greeks used to tell about
five runners, each on own
path, with news of Crete — the
one dead of mountain path
fall; another, snakebit; a third,
enemy-spy arrowed; the fourth,
lost, never found; and the fifth,
arriving at the feet of Klemos,
gasping, “West,” and dying?
Remember Klemos sending
his own runners east to buy
vineyards and fields near
reaping, and, after bleak
battle across west land,
selling wheat and wine to
victor — Cretans or
Greeks, what matter?
Remember the coda — his
great-grandson’s flesh, in
atonement, ripped, slashed,
shredded sun-up, sun-down,
and, in night dark, grown
back pure for violation
again in daylight in price
for Klemos who was, even
then, still planning, far from
final bed, more treasury?
.
Patrick T. Reardon
4.30.24
This poem was originally published by the Main Street Rag and later was included in my book Let the Baby Sleep (In Case of Emergency Press).
Written by : Patrick T. Reardon
For more than three decades Patrick T. Reardon was an urban affairs writer, a feature writer, a columnist, and an editor for the Chicago Tribune. In 2000 he was one of a team of 50 staff members who won a Pulitzer Prize for explanatory reporting. Now a freelance writer and poet, he has contributed chapters to several books and is the author of Faith Stripped to Its Essence. His website is https://patricktreardon.com/.
