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Side door for the late guests

As if buried above his own tomb,
in range of enemy shells and all the sky;
a hyperextensible X marks the spot
and the signs all lead nowhere

Ready to leap out mid-pomp at some undisclosed date;
if current events could ever warrant
resuming a legendary fusillade
or all the attendant circumstance of a owed office

He never served on this coast,
or alongside the other memorials down this derelict parade route,
yet the cracks are caulked with fresh asphalt and the doors welded shut
“more like a loathsome prison than a wholesome habitation.”

Only ever as West as St Louis,
maybe a certain bottomland whorehouse,
or the Expedition Eve ball hosted for Lewis and Clark
and billed to the new government for a modest $622.75

and never ceasing into the young century, both a formal irritation and recommendation
“Nothing ever restrains them from amusement,
which usually commences early in the evening
and is seldom suspended till late the next morning”