The Frond Seller

 

 

 

He came home with a bullet in his neck and some sandy old boots, nothing more

An accident of birth, with a wasteland of defeat for its home

No gold, no empire now, no spire, no sea wall stands

Lawyers pull rickshaws here or stick  

labels onto  

cans

Here’s a job for you, soldier boy, at the Temple of Heavenly Grace

Down by the silent factories, the last full house in that place

Aged 12, she casts quite a spell, that virgin visionary

Palm branches line her path, charge them  

eighty-nine cents a  

piece

They  

took him over  

seas

To serve the  

Virgin’s 

devo

tees

Russians,  

Chinese 

 

 

 

Though the  

planes now seldom  

flew

And the  

ships were dank and  

rusty

With  

slaves for crew  

 

 

 

Town halls, football stadiums and all, how the faithful did boggle and swoon

And down the cash did rain, through the humid white nights of June

He slept in the equipment truck, quite sober, snug and sound

Each night a little girl or boy, having  

buried in their native  

ground