by Barbara Schweitzer
And what if we had never known of fire –
if Prometheus had kept it to himself,
saved his liver and left us cold – and why
did we expect otherwise? This great gelt
of his mind gelded him, after all,
while we have gone blissfully along,
erecting not one Prometheus Mall,
no monument, not an airport or song,
not a holiday, nor any way, thanking
him for his sacrifice of warm embrace.
Poor Meethy. He couldn’t have known of our rank
ingratitude, our superior race
for arms and other ilks of fire, or our sweet
stupid skill of shooting ourselves in the feet.
Barbara Schweitzer is a poet and playwright and author of 33 1/3.
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