Unlike Odysseus, I’m no sacker
of cities, no great glory of Achaea.
Once I was bright-eyed,
like Athena, but have you tried
hauling that aegis around the mall
with a screaming toddler?
But like the king of Ithaka
I’ve been a master of action—
at least at times—like when I flipped
a perfect tortilla española. Though
more often I’m the man in pain,
whining about my knees.
I’m no martyr, like faithful Argos,
flea-bitten on a trash heap,
waiting and waiting
for Mr. Much-Enduring to return.
At least he got a tear from the jerk,
which is more than Penelope got.
My model, O Muse, is Eumaeus instead,
loyal swineherd and slave, who fed
a beggar—disguised Odysseus—no matter
the deerskin he wore for a cloak,
or his unspoken name, or the lies
he told even himself.
