Modern Philosopher

They fight your battles for you every day, The zealous ones, who sorrow in your life. Undaunted by a century of strife, With urgent fingers still they point the way To drawing rooms, in decorous array, And moral Heavens where no casual wife May share your lot; where dice and ready knife Are barred; and feet are silent when you pray.

But you have music in your shuffling feet, And spirituals for a lenient Lord, Who lets you sing your promises away. You hold your sunny corner of the street, And pluck deep beauty from a banjo chord: Philosopher whose future is today!

D.H.