John Quinn, 'Argument'

[duathir.livejournal.com]

Argument

You can't argue with a dead man
You can't lift his head from the mud,
Wipe the mud from his eyes
And wrangle with him
Over kings and empires,
Proletarians and popes.

Ask his opinion of a red star
Or a crooked cross
And he'll not tell you.
No stars shine in his black sky.
His only cross the index to his grave,
And he'll not know of that.

You can look at him helplessly,
You can think,
'once he chattered
And grew indignant over pots of beer,
Grew red in the face,
Or laughed
And said, "you lovely bastard, you!"

'Once
He looked at sunsets.
Once
He plucked grass in the dawn,
Shook it
and watched the falling, iridescent dew
Flash in the dove-grey light,
"It's cold," he said, "it's clean"
Once
He spoke of Brahms
Once
He said,"Let's go on a shicker"
Once
He said, "Next time i'm on leave
I'm getting hooked
She has brown hair and it's curly
And a funny way of glancing over her shoulder
And smiling" '

But now,
Now you want to argue with him
You want to say, 'You died for something great
You died for a Cause
Wasn't it worthwhile to die for a Cause?
Wasn't it?"

Lay his head in the mud again,
Wipe the blood from your hands.

You can't argue with a dead man.

by John Quinn