by Charles Deemer
in this foreign country
I still call home
endlessly assaulted by noise
ads and hype and promotions
opinions and lies
where even the escape of a sporting event
requires using the mute button
the past is a sane sanctuary
filled with old friends
from Aeschylus to Dos Passos
from Aristophanes to Brecht
and many others
who remind me that literature
used to rise above the obscenities
of Filthy Lucre and popularity
and the search for meaning
used to be honorable work
who remind me how blessed I am
to be old enough to remember
