The Sirens do not sing for them: those men
of sinew snatch “and”ing and “or”ing home
across the see. Letcher eyes lean in – come
chatoyant gleam – with stringy thatch of brine
rafted hair dripping, granite glistening, down
beside their puckered feet. Their nervous calm,
their twitching fingers creep on cragging rim
toward limbs – immortal crescents of the moon.
“Listen, I know a guy who knows a guy
who knows Homer’s assistant. There’s a small
part in the Odyssey for a chick that wails
like you. It’s not much, but whadda ya say?”
But Sirens do not sing for them and all
the others driven by the same old sales.