mid-picture, cloaked in red,
misty, yellow ball over heart,
arm half raised with big,
bruiser, butcher's hand
about to bestow
a blessing?
Is he Jesus
of the Streets,
eyes like Tyger Tyger in the night
pointed, piercing,
ready to pounce on
persona-non-grata,
who, in his own ignorance,
might tra-la-la,
tippy-toe away
indifferently,
forget 'ah, the humanity,'
the line of them
flowing back into foggy,
one-point
perspective?
Of course,
The Four Horsemen are
at the front.
Keepers of the gate,
beaten, broken, busted to dust,
creating a moment
for all to see.
Is it grace, indifference, arrogance,
spite, Deus caritas est?
Men on four points of the compass.
Mr. West: orange, radiated face,
blissful look,
stares into midnight
remembering Moon Pies and
other delights.
Mr. South: white billed cap contrasts
burnt umber skin. His t-shirt
is the sea. He holds
an Eleanor Rigby expression
in his hand.
Everything else
is gone.
Mr. North is free.
The wind repeats
a childhood verse
sing-song
over and over
classical Crimson and Clover,
an ever forgetful
tape-loop, tin-whistle
symphony.
He wonders
what's for dinner.
Mr. East, burgundy jacket,
once thought John Lennon
was the answer. Life led him
on an Easter egg hunt
with no way home.
Eternally topped with
scarlet ski-cap, he lapsed
in and out of rage,
cage to cage. Prozac sailed him
on another course,
or was it just
the tides of time
lapping against
the jagged shores
that turned the werewolf
into
the lamb?
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