Hello, my name is… Pericles
Pericles the Porter, pushes death one-way.
Are born, will die.
The mortuary trolley anonymous, metal-grey. Loud wheels on lino.
He didn’t know her, Bed 3.2, by the window, the nurse said.
Was she old, too old for this?
Did she not have sons and daughters, grandchildren?
Pericles the Architect, in another, recent, life,
Forced to flee Greek austerity,
For this.
Now pushing corpses, soon-to-be corpses, and the lucky ones,
Masks askew in lifts, coughing and agitated.
He offers accented words of comfort,
And accepts the risks, without choice.
As he accepts the xenophobia of this so-proud island refuge.
The irony of the word’s Greek-ness not lost.
This Pericles, the name a grandmotherly gift, soldiers on,
For family at home.
And that Pericles, the ancient Greek; sage General,
The Acropolis his lasting monument,
So strong of speech,
Fearsome advocate of democracy;
What would he say?
“Don’t hide from necessary decisions. Protect the weak.”
He died of plague in Athens, many did.
Pericles the Porter mops his forehead.
Unaware, the fever there, harbinger of the approaching viral storm.
So soon this trolley will be his.
No monument for him on
The Athenian skyline.