by Kenneth Nichols
Young Pyramus and Thisbe stained the earth
With consanguine ambition that the Fates
Might grant their love the immortality
Reserved for genius, titan and the brave.
The realist accepts the frigid truth:
No ancient name alights our modern lips
By virtue of the love they strove to share
With people plopped inside their bantam sphere.
It’s time to glorify far-sighted men
And women who, alone and sans cuirass
Explore a new horizon and combine
What heretofore was thought immiscible.
Ken Nichols teaches playwriting at Oswego State and composition at Cayuga Community College in Central New York. He received his MFA in Creative Writing from Ohio State. His work has appeared in publications including Main Street Rag, Lunch Ticket, Crimespree magazine, Skeptical Inquirer, the Tin House blog and PopMatters. Further, he reviews literary journals for NewPages and has been quoted in The New Yorker.