105

Adelbert Miltiades Preis

Adelbert Miltiades Preis feels drunk

when the moon rides finial full,

and his eyes glitter with milken light sunk

in deeps that the sun left dull.

He leans to snatches of song that folk

of modern wit will forever scorn,

imagines he dreamt that he too woke

in Lorien or fairylands forlorn.

Though under the noonday sun he strides

exuding the banker’s confidence

or over his marble desk confindes

the dollars grossed by pure common sense,

Adelbert Miltiades Preis feels spelled,

when the moon’s grown dark or the sun gone down,

to avoid the sidewalk cracks that welled

with Luck on his morning way to town.

But if street were cloven and stars shone through,

Adelbert Miltiades Preis could stall

astraddle the crack like stubborn glue.

And he would not fall.