Fifth of June
Just stepping off the Carousel of Progress,
Still, “These are the Times”-ing
When the phone, belt-clipped, rang
With atonal, casual urgency.
Overwhelmed by the sun, I sought shadow-
Preparation for the voice on the other end.
Sweat dripped into my eyes; squinting
As I answered, “Hello,”
Day-Star-blinded and optimistic.
“Have you heard?” “No. What?” “Sorry.”
“God, what is it?”
“His Sun set, finally.” I knew instantly
That, even in the intersection of make-
Believe and greatness, of ranches
And studio lots, he shone—headlined—still.
Loving Nancy and God and America,
And even me,
Tackling malaise with vision, with words,
With myth, from behind the golden
Curtain, before the Iron Curtain
He took his place beyond the sunrise.
To the sunset on our Carousel of
Fighting on, eclipsed and echoing resolve
Like a trumpet against Jericho,
With humble fallibility, page-turning:
A new scene, a new story: an enduring hope.