Ducle Et Decorum Est: An Ode to 2020

Dulce Et Decorum Est: An Ode to 2020
(With special thanks to Wilfred Owen)

Mouths covered, we hesitate to find a crowd
Or some place we might be judged on a cough.
Another thousand died today, a chorus sung loud
For their memory... but the sound must be off.
“To the bars, restaurants, and malls!” is the sound
Heard instead, the Lords howling that we’re safe
Because to say otherwise is impolitic for the Proud
Boy at the head of state; an awful sound that chafes.

Gas! GAS! He gases those before the church
Who pray against the Order he strikes them with.
They choke and are beaten, those left in the lurch
Of a world they protest against; a love they can’t kiss.
Like the lives and loves of so many now lost
From the bullets and knees on the necks of the few

And the hundreds of thousands spent as the cost
To fake that a president has done all he could do.

Millions infected, in misery, suffering, some never
To recover. Choking on plain air as they stare
At what could have been: a country that didn’t sever
A pandemic response plan and a leader who cares.
Such a vision dissolves as they finally shut their eyes.
The man in the White House simply sleeps as if dead
As his lies drop as often as we hear the cries
Of another COVID victim. As often as police defend
Their right to murder as oppose to just arrest
And all of it done for the president to have glory?
Only more of the old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

A Novel

If I were writing a novel, I’m sure
I’d first have to come up with some
characters.
Surely, that’s how you start, for
the first thing you meet in a good story
is a person.

What will this person do, you may ask?
Of course, he’d have to fit one of the
archetypal conflicts
if the story is going to make any sense.
There’s literally no other way to tell
a story

what with them all being told already.
Once I’ve made peace with that, I can
consider
that this person is self-loathing
and only loves himself through
the eyes of others.

Yes, very tragic. And still relatable
to my audience. A positive
self-image
and a stable mental life will not
approach my novel anyway...
Unless

in a required AP English Lit. class
in some affluent white suburban
high school.
But this person, my character, who sees
the value in others, considers himself
simply transactionable

and so tries so hard to show his worth.
I’ll be accused of trying to recreate
Faramir,
but I’ll just respond by redirecting critics
to my previous point about
archetypes,

and pray that I’ve done literature the service
of at least doing a creative job
of copying.
Because the twist, you see, is that such
effort by our loathsome, relatable
hero

is all for naught, since those around him
only ever wanted to get at his
humanity,

and it was decidedly inhuman of him
to treat himself as mere
capital.

Our tragic hero, selling himself for love
had no buyers, since he couldn’t see he was
priceless.
The book, on the other hand, will be
for sale at a bookstore near you for $19.95,
hardcover.

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