Horace

Now, if you can’t silence your neighbors—

the bang below, the screams above, the tongue

full of obscenities—remember: your

ears are sewers that empty into Lethe.

Why not go out for a walk? Ignore the clouds

of midges murmuring about the dead

dragonfly with iridescent wings

the rain beat down and washed to the grate.

Grieve for him privately, and sincerely,

in your own way. Celebrate his life

somehow: a hymn you hum when you’re alone;

not some expensive statue, like those bronze

divinities from Greece, standing around—

naked, shivering—frightened to find

themselves the stars of a Roman spectacle.

We do not need to visit the Arena—

avert our eyes or revel in the slaughter.

Find comfort in the uncomfortable fact

you can’t change History. Remember: all

those roads that lead to Rome also lead

away. If each direction's lined with graves,

walk on. Follow the road to Avernus—

the undiscovered country. It is still

in relatively good repair. Pack lunch.

Have a picnic in the shade. There,

you may meet an old friend, like I did:

a tipsy gentleman dressed in a toga,

taking a turn around his property,

surprised to see he has a visitor.

Horace is always glad to entertain.