Where We Put Our Names

These libraries

these placards inscribed SAMUEL BOCHART—DIED 1667

high up on the wall where only the wandering eyes

of the procrastinator will chance to glance it over.

These halls with portraits hung—

such prestige, these dusty lips

and faces pale with time. Such dry wrists.

Your frames are pouting.

Perhaps one will remember Kaleb Freke

and go so far as to learn his history,

but on the whole Peter Courayer will be forgotten

or shamed to Wikipedia.

You failed to achieve what only Achilles

and some few others grasped for—eternal love

in the form of a Name.

I think my love is much more momentary, but ah

how much sweeter it is to hear it whispered

than to read it on a plaque

high up on the parapets.

by E.R. Womelsduff