The Poseidon of 3rd St.

All we see now is
the god in cameo,
waiting for fishes
to fall from the camel-colored sky.

He thought it would be easy
after he dumped Athena in Boston
(She kept rattling on
about MIT and Power and
Sub-Atomic Particles and Power.)—

A quick flight to the coast,
but there were too many
sniveling mortals in between.
And he even began to miss Amphitrite.
She had a way with eels.

After a wrong turn
at a rodeo near Dallas,
(Not one bull was sacrificed
in his honor—the god BBQ ruled there.)
He ended up in the City of Angels

Playing a game of three-card monte
with an up-and-coming Santeria saint
(He would not honor him by repeating
his name.) and lost his golden whip
and swift-footed horses

And ended up as a wall
plaque on a promontory
at Third and Alameda,
watching orange peels
and lettuce scraps
shrivel at his feet.

But he was clever still.
He knew Apollo would
be by on Spring Break.
(He was one youth whose love
of beachside blondes
knew no bounds.)

Now, if he could just
get back in the Golden Boy’s
good graces (He had not really
meant to cheat him
in that Calauria deal.)—

There just might be a way
out of this one.

2 Comments on "The Poseidon of 3rd St."


  1. Sorry about that! The links should all be working now. Let me know if there are further problems.


  2. Enjoyed the poem, but my comment has to deal with the archives. Can’t access any of the old material, and I have an up-to-date Internet Explorer. :/

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