Daily Poem: April 22

The Ruling Class


When the president of the corporation died one day (somewhat suddenly), the members of the board decided to name an award after him, to be given annually. The award, they said, should recognize in its recipient a preponderance and refined quality of the traits that gave him, in life, the respect and adoration of his many dedicated workers, thereby honoring his memory. The award was carved by a master craftsman—a specialist in monuments to the ruling class—who worked for a year in solitude in his small, but comfortable New Orleans studio, whose windows looked out on the busy markets of a Bywater street. When he was finished, he informed the board members, who one day gathered in the stairwell of his building and were admitted, one by one, for a brief, private viewing of the president’s memorial award. The stairs were steep, and the hallway shimmered with motes of dust illuminated by sunlight streaming from a skylight several floors above. One by one, they entered the studio, the stairs shifting and creaking as they then departed, sidling gravely past the remaining fellows still awaiting their tour. When the exhibition was finished, the members gathered on the bright hot street and waited for the sculptor to join them. But as time passed, and it became clear that he would not, they conferred and made the decision to walk back to their office. Although the day was hot, and they sweated heavily through woolen slacks and shirtsleeves, they all agreed it was very beautiful.