Telemachus and Spider-Man are racing,
one by web, and one by wine-dark sea.
The mermaids that refused to sing for me
are rapt, and with their watery coin are placing
bets. Both fatherless and self-effacing
boys are buoyed by pasts from which they flee,
monsters of their own making—gee
whiz I wish the finish line were facing
Manhattan’s heights, or the rosy hands of dawn,
the sun-up promise of a new and better day;
young man who, versus self-defeat, just cheats:
mind mattering more than martial brawn,
complainers left with nothing more to say—
not even Homer nods at these receipts.