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Momus
He toys a bit with the rear guard before the night
Is over. He climbs the towers near the Parthenon,
Flicking his fingers at the goddesses, taking delight
In them and with little whispers tries to make an impression.
He is his own boss. But often like a child,
He pouts in the Roman moonlight,
Takes too long to behave nicely and in wild
Remarks, improprieties and dispossession
Flusters all the gods who comprise the Pantheon.
Some of his words prick sharp and create a scene.
He often takes a joke to an extreme.
But some find him sitting like a lonely soul
Beside a column, eating or thumbing through a scroll.
He's inordinately and immoderately always around,
The very friend to have when, at night,
He pushes boulders up the hills of Italy
And sighs because no one hears him, makes a sound
like a fellow acting tough, who simply needs some company.
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