Speaking of Horace, he was a good man,
as far as we can see—

the son of a freed slave, who walked crowded
basalt Roman streets, pungent in their offense,

but guided by his father’s watchful eyes—
he the child, then the man, glancing back.

I do not know why I think of him again today— 
his poetry lasts.

We have his words, and though I wish
for more than one complete poem 

from Sappho, her lost work, a tragedy
of her lost dialect—

her full verses and lyre now only echoing
on the Aegean Sea,

I must give Horace his due. Appreciate
his lasting breaths:

            Now if I speak more freely than you like
            And seem too prone to laughter, surely you
            Can grant a little license here. I learned
            This habit from the very best of fathers.*

Was his philosophy richer for that parent’s patient,
steady shadow? 

I look at my own hand and pen—
a lack of similar shadow—

and ask: what would my life have been
if I had had his luck?

More vital to me now—
what will my own daughter write of me?

*from Horace’s Satire 1.4