A KIND OF LINCOLN
Even now more eloquent
than those long April twilights
we’ve spent with our American cousin,
where over and over the finest actor
of his time catches a spur on the bunting,
limps to the fresh horse waiting forever
by the backstage door and yet again
a nation mourns, pushes grimly on
through the centuries watching you ride
that stone throne, your face a country
of sharp angles where irony
meets sadness, staring out.
—from Rattle #40, Summer 2013
__________
Tom Chandler: “I visited Ford’s Theater in Washington, DC, last year. Like everyone, I had been fascinated by the events of April 1865 ever since boyhood. Seeing how small and human-sized the theater is, and seeing the blood stains still on Lincoln’s chair in the Presidential box, seared the reality of that violent night into my heart. I knew I would have to write about it in order to know it clearly.” (www.tomchandlerpoet.com)
