The slaves have gone.
Euripedes, Thucycles;
the slaves have not gone.
The slaves have left their
robes and linens.
Their guitars and banjos
are leaning on the fence.
The slaves take down
the senator’s eye
and in place
put in the olive seed.
They eat and sleep in
the commoners’ homes,
the track houses and
cheap apartments,
not starting a revolution
that starts a revolution.
The slaves.
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