SUBSCRIBE OR FOLLOW

Jan 142011
 

by Jacques Wakefield



Below the cathedral’s reliefs

sauntering voices prowl restaurants

voices loud enough to awaken a prayer sleeping on the stairs


He is adorned with prized priced cans,

Treasured ancient clothing,

Grocery bags tied tight to

Keep memory from escaping


(twist &turn fetal/lay still

Smellin’ like corn chips) & he

Wakes to prey in the cathedral’s shadow


Lifting himself up on kind words,

Free coins and guilty stares


(Winters are snow monuments when he slows down to smell the air)


His new wine gone

Cloth wrapped feet

Stories; layers of sweaters he built of himself

Alarming the tiniest of sorrows

And on the same street

Cascading sun

Spin lovers

In a maze

Sing


He could have been a craftsman

A fiddler, a best man

Or an infidel


Creviced hands lined black, maps

For digging gold in garbage

Trembling under the weight of a donut

Grateful the coffee remembers him

He doesn’t drink it whole

But holds the cup like a torch or flag, and wanders


Gazed way beyond a meal

Exploring the Nothing there.

Disappearing face…if only he had his mine back…


Somewhere he lost an opinion

Of himself & found the doorway

Of a cathedral.