George Dillon Davidson

George Dillon DavidsonOne day, when I was ten,
I was playing baseball
with Miguel Elliott, and we
saw a strange movement and
light high up in the air.
Miguel swore it was the Angel
Gabriel, giving a
trumpet concert. I told
him it was a UFO, and
spun him a story of
aliens coming to
earth, escaping cruel masters, and
befriending a pair of
Earth boys who they would take
on an adventure. Just then, Rod
Deegan went past, and heard
what we were saying. He
chastised us that it was just a
weather balloon, and we
were wasting our time, and
we should grow up now and get jobs.

Miguel met his Angel
after he slipped, and he
never got to grow up. I spent
a lifetime running, and
hiding from Rod Deegan
and his fellows. But every road
I took led back to their
clutches, and my life was
held in thrall to their patronage.
All three of us have passed
now. All three might be called
wastes, failures, or disappointments.
Did any of us leave
behind a mark on the
world, on our shared Spoon River home?
A life cut short, squandered.
A callow legacy
of corruption. Unfinished tales,
read by few, remembered
by fewer. All of us
falling short. All of us failing.

The Gods of the Vikings
all knew they were doomed, that
there was nothing they could do to
avert their fate. What they
taught their Norsemen was to
fight for as long and as fiercely
as they could before they
succumbed to death. And death
spared no one, even deities.

I did what I did. I
struggled hard as I could.
Now we’re all gone. Now we’re all here

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