Hermes

The vagabond forgave the hills today,

Shuffled like a broke-down car over crests.

He knows he’s as starkly verdant as they,

But the hills have something he doesn’t yet.

He can’t rest—must keep trekking, guiding souls

As they insist on deserving the best.

And won’t he put in a good word? Hot coals

Were never what they had in mind, living

Life like string-less kites. Elysium goes

By other names now. He keeps forgetting

Which to use. He’s centuries too old for

This gig, yet here he is, never breaking.

Digging out the lyre, leading the horde

Over hills and under dirt with each chord.