A crumpled man in a glass box
as if he were already dead
and packed away for memory's sake
in a stuffy, dusty museum.
He rides through the streets,
crowds and crowds of faces,
and faces of people,
and different crowds in
different places
with the same bright faces,
and clutching hands.
He makes the evening news
raising a careful finger
pointing back at the desert,
pushes the stiff collar
of his turtle hump
so that I almost catch sight
of his eyes
Chilled by marble,
his very bones must ache,
the weight of the world
and the Word on his shoulders.