Quid Dedicatum... Poem by Morgan Michaels

What should his poet ask of Lord Apollo
on his feast day, as the first wine
flows darkly from the bowl?
Sardegnian fructitude?

sweet neatness of Calabrian folds?
gold? Indian ivory? The
lush acres ceaselessly pared
by whispering Liris?

So portioned by Fortune, they tip lees
who've but a short stalk, while
wealthier proteges of the Gods
sip limitless cru from worked cups

boughten with Syrian stuffs, as four and more
times per year their charmed ships
brave the Atlantic's waves. For me-
olives and mallows. Then,

grant me, Lord, the pleasure of few
possessions, bodily vigor, un-
clouded old age and the power still
to lift my voice in song.