By Pavel Chichikov
They buried Hadrian with a view
Buried deeper than they knew
The emperor inside a drum
The tomb itself time's famous slum
The body splinters, sticks to dust
Nothing's left to fetch disgust
Much less irreverence for him
Whose power tore us limb from limb
Dry powder, clay, a talcum-corpse
When all's undone there's nothing else
Outside the ramparts, near a fence
Purslane never grown immense
Fleshy leaves, stems for eating
Flowers' chaste and proper greeting
Those who see them as they walk
Pluck a salad from a stalk
Yellow posy of the poor
In spring a purgative, a cure
Purslane growing since he died
Grew before him, afterward
No one ever thought to save
The yellow flowers near his grave
(Click here to follow Pavel's ongoing epic poem “The Shoulder of the Sun.” You may visit Pavel's website at http://www.greyowlpress.com.)
