Going or gone the way of the Mid-Atlantic,
its better-moneyed kissing cousin.
Britisher than British, smothered
in mother country enunciation, it is
the noise a voice makes crossing the air
with word of war in Europe, troubles
in other colonies, one that knows
it knows better than best for you.
Last I heard it live was a book sale
in Halifax, the Bush years, fundraiser
at the old Forum. The lady who rang me through
saw the Marcus Aurelius I’d got for a loonie
and told me how our world and times
could use a ruler like him again. Her tone
was as if she’d lived under his reign,
had seen him at a distance in childhood
as his horse-powered motorcade passed down
the Appian Way, him waving just for her.