The painter paints me hero: so I stand
rigid, fists fixed, taller than the rest;
my deed attests I am no longer pacifist,
but, sanctified in umber oils, I stand
framed by the threshold of America.
I astound this smoky gathering of men
who peer thick-lidded at their stricken friend,
weak-faced and softened all by liquor;
their dealt hands seed the floor. All is red,
blood red, scarlet red: this welter of fine-thread
coats, these slouching, bewigged clowns. I wear
Philadelphia brown. My sober mother stares,
but painter blesses me - so by his hand
my foe falls into shadows, and I stand.
