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"Shall I Compare Thee to a Backfill Pile?" April 27, 2000 |
by Elizabeth J. Himelfarb |
A computer key, A hair elastic-- I've tried to be Enthusiastic. A light bulb shard, A rusty nail, A business card, A dried out snail: I dig and sift and measure, I hunt and poke and peck-- Bring on the buried treasure Before I wring my neck. I'll pack it in, I'll quit forever. This has been A lost endeavor. But first I'll take one final dig And then my trowel will rest And I will find some other gig That inspires a trifle more zest. In goes the spade And then I will stop. As the sun starts to fade I see something pop. A sparkle, a glimmer, A glitter, a shine, A spangle, a shimmer-- It is mine, yes, all mine! Could it be the golden calf? A coin from places Greek? The Holy Grail, or at least half Of Agamemnon's cheek? I brush away the dirt and dust And what do you think I find? A bottle top that's peppered with rust-- The gods are so unkind! My backyard digging stint is dead-- I wish I had never begun. When Mom sees her azalea bed I'll be grounded 'til I have a son. Tomorrow I'll be a fireman, A bandit, or a scout. There are easier ways to work on a tan-- Archaeology is out. |
© 2000 by the Archaeological Institute of America archive.archaeology.org/online/features/poetry/himelfarb.html |
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