Who Am I

Who am I to say that none followed you
out of Memphis, down the corpse-strewn highway
to the marsh, with its malarial swarm
and steaming fetid water? Who am I

to tell you not to drink, or when you do
try to comfort you in the last stages
of the disease, when—now delusional—
you look for help or answers in the sky?

but you are not alone. Look around you
and know that many others share your pain
and your disgust with ancient astronauts,

who, like Phaeton, once drove too near the sun
and asked you to rebuild their chariot
from the ashes—a strange, deserted Sphinx.


WC Roberts  WC Roberts's website lives in a mobile home up on Bixby Hill, on land that was once the county dump. The only window looks out on a ragged scarecrow standing in a field of straw and dressed in his own discarded clothes. WC dreams of the desert, of finally getting his first television set, and of ravens. Above all, he writes.

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