Conclave
Black smoke like a flock of sparrows
Fleeing the startle of heavy tires
Backing up over broken glass
A dropped bugle clangs
Against cold concrete
After the last note of Taps fades
A group of selves get together
And melt into a river
Winding around chain restaurants and strip malls
A college of cardinals
A school of fish
An encyclopedia of anxiety
A lesson in humility
Gets outsourced
To an office park in Bangalore
Everything gets burned,
Not just the trash. Either that
Or you freeze to the core
Who you think you are.
Who you thought you were.
The one who can spot the difference.
Baby birds nested in a wreath
Hanging from the front door.
We open and close it gently.
White smoke like the collective exhalation
Of a congregation of homeless saints
Huddled under the shadow of an overpass.
We draw straws, best two out of three
Scratch and claw, suffer and bleed
But there’s nothing to see.
A man in a white cassock stands on the balcony
Overlooking a silent, empty courtyard
While the absent world mourns its choices
No comments:
Post a Comment