Cracking

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In the morning that dawned cold and dark
We wound our way through an empty park.
In the middle of the park rose a statue of stone.
Around it was nothing; it stood alone.
You looked and said “Is that me? Is that you?”
I studied the statue to see if it was true.

The cracking seams were coming apart
And in its blank eyes I saw no heart
Upon its curved brow it wore a look
That suggested to me “here stands a crook”.
I wanted to turn and say “It’s you”
But then, in doubt, a new resemblance grew;
It held a hand over a hollow chest
And it kept on grinning, trying its best.
Against its cheeks ran tears of rain
Hunched shoulders cloaked vestiges of pain.

We walked away through the cold park.
The morning was sightless and the clouds kept it dark.
We walked in silence, passing a city bus
And in the shadows of the whirling dust,
I wrote the words “It’s most definitely us.”





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