My Last Duke

That's my last duke there hanging on the wall,
beside my diploma, under the neon sign.
Of course you see him pose with gun in hand,
shellelagh hanging fiercely from his belt,
fisherman's net slung over his right shoulder,
rope coiled nonchalantly around the left.
In his breast pocket (which doubles as an ashtray)
a swizzle stick. In short, the very picture
of machismo. Here's the sort of man, you'll say,
who braves the storm disdaining an umbrella,
who chomps on lemons, thinks a Rubik's cube
is something to chill a drink with, swings a scorpion
by the tail, deals bruises right and left,
and when he gets a windfall, treats the town
to pots of ale all round. Could you have seen him
in the privacy of his ducal chamber
shod in ballet shoes, toenails neatly clipped,
posed before the parabolic mirror
wearing a seashell necklace, all aslather
with perfume from an alabaster bottle,
dancing pagoda-hatted — then perhaps
you'd understand why MENE MENE TEKEL
UPARSIN showed up, penciled on the wall
by an unseen hand, and why the sifters came
and winnowed him like chaff before the wind.

© Esther Greenleaf Mürer