Michelangelo’s poems

What I find serious 
is losing ground: it’s the plaintive voice 
of the singer on my old stereo; 
the book of Michelangelo’s poems 
bought at a garage sale for a dollar 
which still has its dust jacket 
and a name in linked writing 
over the frontispiece.  

It’s easy enough to find these things 
if you enter into the search, not like 
when Schliemann set out for Troy
with a copy of the Iliad in his trunk 
and only a rough idea where to dig

aaaaaaa―but would anyone care now
if you bragged of finding a necklace 
once worn by a girl called Helen? 

For so long I thought I was in time, 
and now so completely out of it 
I’m tempted to find a pirate shirt 
and loll about on hard benches 
smoking opium from a wooden pipe 

which seems a better option 
than wearing my pants low 
or posting photos of myself smiling 
aaaaaaaaaaaaa aa       ―Michelangelo 
never did that; the fashion then 
was for sonnets, which he wrote 
when he wasn’t working, when he was 
a little melancholy, unsure if he was loved 
and the world’s creeping indifference 
something he was struggling with.