A Few Days in the Summer of 2019

After the gods left,
The wild old man, the foolish
Irredentist patriot

Who just wouldn’t let it go,
Was free to make as many
Poems as his remaining days.

Lu You, muttering
In your cups, recluse,
Because what else could you do,

Unlike you, I’ve never dreamed
Of reclaiming an empire
Through brave civil service,

Raving patriotism,
And passionate penmanship;
Still, I salute you,

You sword-clutching, wine-guzzling,
Poetic old coot.
You were not ashamed

Of nine thousand poems
Among the ten thousand things,
And the older you became,

The more your art suited you,
Wild old man who knew
Each day brings fresh profusion.