Butterflies

I am fond of Harry Chapin songs,
so copied this poem a couple of years ago,
just in case there was a place for it.

faucon
..................................................................

Butterflies
By Harry Chapin


One eye, lizard-like, opens on my pillow.
My dreams demand some sustenance from this encroaching day.
I close again for one last view of where I've been.
My hackles rise in terror at images of razor claws.
I sharpen my fangs.

My alarm clock's timid fanfare
draws me to its blunted blades tracing placid circles.
My feet find the floor.
I gird myself with cotton, strap on ballpoint swords
swagger forth to search the streets for concrete lists
reverberating with chimes of metal and savage duels.
But all the lions are gone.

I stride into arenas, legs spread, eyes ready
to be slaked by rosy rivulets.
But there are no torn and blood-enobled dead,
made victors with their vanquishing.
There is only muffled swishing.
Park benches hold casualties of silent wars,
each one found too proud or weak
to swing against a fluttering mark.
No chance for decent burial.
They lug their own sarcophagi.

Still I, a virgin warrior
who dreams of bright medallions
must battle with the butterflies,
or else be bleached and broken
by pale and stealthy powdered wings.