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.