Today I’m on the train again,
presently entering Darien.
Bum hurts from multiple days in seats–
But bum brain still remembers Keats.
Of Cortez, he wrote (or maybe of his men)–
Surmising, silent, on a peak in Darien.
(On horseback? Mayhap.) But in the end,
my bum bolstered by comparison,
I too peek at Darien.
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Here’s thirteenth poem for April with 55 words written on the train (and based upon John Keats sonnet (about first reading Chapman’s Homer.) Tell it to the g-man!
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