Glory

I wish I

could go to

Delphi, slide my

head past the front

door’s column to

see if the place

was still

in service, but

instead of priestesses

I would find

publicists discussing

the books he’s

sold and

his next paid

appearance, legal

tender replacing

libation, heaped in

silver bowls, “Ah

a true fan” Apollo

would say when

my jeans and

v-neck made their

way through the

tunnel of Blackberries.

“Would you

like a signed

t-shirt or a

photo?” but

then he would

pause,

take the look

from my

eyes and hold

it in his

hand, “Best

go to Calliope

if that’s

what you want.”

A hephastean

bodyguard would

place his

hand on my

shoulder,

gliding me

to a quiet

room. The lady

would be middle-

aged, frames

on the walls with

Homer and

Virgil’s handwriting,

and though

many could step

to her unknown,

she would

know me. “I

am as helpful

to you as a

fortune cookie, my

dear. Do not

live my life, your

existence is

the opposite of

mine.”