Jaundiced, weathered brick,
The other, mortar, crumbling sand,
Go to a grave in a cold loaf of earth;
The mason sweat, bones and bones.
Inscribed on a tomb, these lines:
Once a monument, citizens, scant dollar
Lest your pockets,
Be now this bleak outcrop of dead stone.
String up the assembly line for the paying,
This tour season is peak on a spewed relic
Anchored in rebar and a wire cage,
Rusted as to cut a finger, your wound to keep;
These two most penetrable foes gritted in a bleed
That will rekindle a mason’s envy, drop
His soul into a dirt clime beneath the sun.
Seek not his calloused hands for a prayer,
Nor the hardened look upon his brazened face
In a black and white life, nor put up a testament
To his footsteps in the afterlife;
His sons and daughters shoot their hands
Holding a trowel, mouths like troughs remembering
A reason; they stand knee-deep in a grave.
Copyright © 02/26/2019 lance sheridan®