To Apollo

J. Allyn Rosser

Whose songs, whose lyre, whose careless sighs are these?
You taught us to divide the air in melodies
when all we knew to do with it was breathe.
You’ve never worked a day of your gorgeous career,
striking a cheesecake pose on that lifeguard chair,
soaking up sun (and every mortal being’s stare)
to tan, but never burn. Who needs sunblock
when you can haul the sun behind the clouds
when not horsing around around the clock,
when not giving chase to the one girl who doubts
you’re a catch, leaving her in a stand of trees,
whose sighs, whose hair, still toss upon the breeze?

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