A Man’s Sweat Dream
I woke up from a dream in which the head
Of Philip, King of Macedons, sat on
My shoulders, nightmare tousled sheets and bed
Infused with sweat, the sweat of horses drawn
Into the mattress with his royal stench.
He didn’t want to leave my waking mind.
No trick I tried to pull could make him blench
Since he was white stone. Both his eyes were blind
Though opened to my century. A king
And father and a soldier, he could not
Forgive my attitudes. I had to cling
To sanity. He was that ancient clot
Which raises sons to murders we call war.
He is a sleeping stain we can’t ignore.