Lincoln’s nineteen auburn millimeters don’t complain because it won’t reach him 

till he’s older— 1809 has passed but he’s still

an adolescent chasing naivety across tollways and storing it

in the cartilage marrying sternum with ribcage. He’s an alloy now; amalgams are crafted to curb stain, though someday he’ll acquire the jade(d) facade that hovers over

even Ms. Liberty who hovers over

all those huddled masses with her patina and her torch. Simply

 

because he hasn’t yet become noir as unpolished sterling his age

or doesn’t chafe like the underside of a pontoon half his years

merely illustrates his grit, but soon his candor will earn the better

of him and even his chestnut countenance

            top hat, thirty-six Dorics and all

will succumb.