Into a community that will be gated
flies the fey and scepterless Prince of Spots,
sent to wrangle over a silverer lining.
He was told to shed any presuppositions,
though even what they'd be he can’t suppose;
and the stamp on his papers is so backdated
that he reckons he’ll soon be scouring pans and pots,
while the gatekeepers are upstairs dining.
Is this the finale of his many missions,
in which a journey comes to its belated close?
Or chores through which he’s already waded –
a command to tee his crosses and eye his dots?
Alas, but the Prince of Spots is not repining.
Time’s one-way street was filled with elisions;
beyond these gates he imagines he’ll find repose.
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