Joseph Milcinovic ’15
There is a room that I adore very much in the back of the house.
The last door on the right, I see the mantle.
Immense in size,
The mantle is weathered,
Scarred from use,
The oak has turned brittle.
So brittle that I am afraid to touch it.
The mantle has worked wonderfully for its master.
If only the mantle could understand that everything it upholds,
Some academic documents are on the mantle,
Barely legible, but are displayed with the highest regard.
Located on top of the mantle, there is a photo
So miniscule in size
With a group of nails,
Pounded in around the picture.
There is a compass pointing straight at the picture,
The photograph of a man in Italy,
The man is in jubilation, he has seen the most wonderful city
in the world,
But will he be remembered?
In this same brittle photograph
A priest is on the corner with little boxes,
Pleading for compassion
Inscribed on the boxes are the words “per i poveri”
He is putting the boxes onto a shelf no larger than 3 feet long and one foot high
Photos are the only things,
that make people recall events,
The mantle in the last room on the right,
For it has no foundation.
No future generation to hold the oak made mantle up…
Meanwhile the mantle in Italy shall never fall,
The mantle will always be remembered.
Is Not Worth