17

Far-Darter, Silver-Bowed

So your whistle called up Troy?

Troy fell centuries ago.

Not one living girl or boy

listens to ancient tales of woe.

Mind your failing flute, old piper.

You’ve let happenings up and grow

on neon sidewalks where a hyper

generation floats on snow.

Look: clarity is now passé;

just grab any car horn and blow

and you’re musician straightaway.

Fool piper, must you stutter so?

Mend your ways, or else the brute

will murder you. If Sun, then glow

for youth again. Go skirl your flute

in Nashville’s Grand Ole Opry show.