They rid the cave of bats,
careful, before they buy,
that there's no history
of dragon dung, no witch
that used her genitals
for joy;
they do not clear
the lot but have it cleared,
fencing off the line of
trees where a white bull
from Crete once grazed and may
still wander secretly.

Know their mixed metaphors
quite well, brooms handy if
a spider tries a web,
wear suspenders, check for
flies and, if in season,
staff a lab;
read papers
where a party might break
out, stomp perfunctorily
the latest thing on Joyce,
damn poets and smoke, peer
above their plastic cups.

As for Shakespeare, Dickinson
and the rest, they are but
compost for orchids in
their heads, except for James
who could feel at home in
anybody's bed;
power,
memos, and the buck have
added process to their work,
while that giant, once their
joy, is hushed, to sit like
Claudius by their fire.