Of a time, even if not always of our own,
We never were depressed, we never thought
We were bad, we just never understood
What happened. There were more of us
Than we would ever encounter or have
Counted for us, even if each one was always
For each of us the only one. Regardless
Of our topics or the stories others told
Or would have told to define our lives,
Had our lives been worth outlining,
Almost no one wanted to contend
With the results of our experiments. Some
Of us had been, have been, will have been
Uncovered and claimed, named as rediscovered.
The rest of us disintegrate, decomposing
Elegies in a county landfill. It’s why we came
To love the middens, to dream of rigorous,
Earnest archeologists of another time
To which we might actually belong, for which
We might yet have some value. To those ones,
The ones who pull us out of Herculaneum,
The ones who restore our moccasins we left
In the mud when we hobbled on, the ones
Who carefully brush the dust off our bones
Heaped and crushed at the bottom of a lake
Long gone, we dedicate our experiments
In unsuccessful living, singing, you, you, you,
And you, too, to us, are one of the only one.
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