Tuesday, September 10, 2013


He keeps a piece of tape
over the slot in the top of his head
to keep coins from being dropped in;
he keeps himself in a shell of clothing,
and never lies down to rest.

Wounded to stillness and wide-eyed,
invulnerable to language,
in the garden he waits, on a stalk.

His placement outside the market
makes him shine, with the shine
of one who is being looked at,
all glossy with sunrise, annointed
by early twilight
in the falsified calm of the afternoon,
his grin is what he's got.

In the magic territories, collecting a paycheck.
He is not an answer, and the question
has never. Been. Asked.

1 comment:

raw poetry by donna snyder said...

this reminds me a bit of that Dresden Dolls song about the boy who ran on money.