A Day for a Third-Century Christian Martyr

America was in decline then in an empire known as Rome.
Only the blind ones there could see the day these years hence
when the sanguine vermillion would turn up as a cellophane
covering the fairly expected champagne and chocolate.
And that the lonelyheart would only hear
shadows of a whisper close to the ear?
Pretending not to care
(they're all just playing out an advertisement after all)
but feeling long ago, that red was someone's blood
to be shared for a lifetime and beyond.

Caught inside or out, the lonelyheart calls it the same,
uttering 'America' in one cynical breath
and at the same moment, longs to be part of someone's day,
if only for a touch or one shy kiss
without being called a stranger,
or worse yet,



A.G. Vermouth



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