[Max Goodman]

inspired by one of Martin's first lines:


The Bloody Red Wheelbarrow

So much depends on being undepressed
by modern masterpieces about rain
on garden apparatus! It's a strain.
Those damned white chickens: why don't they go nest
somewhere? If subtle critics had been blest
with any kind of sense, they wouldn't chain
us to this nonsense. If they shared the brain
a soggy chicken's got, they'd let it rest.

But clear, important, vivid: damn and blast!
How can responsive readers help but wilt
to realize we're living in a day
on which no Rome could possibly be built?
Our muse, no sleek seductress of the past,
is lovely, maybe--but a lousy lay.