status

there is no one,
no one to impress, no need anymore;
what does it matter? I’m an old man
 
who has lived to see the past, pass like seasons-
 
a remote observer
    wandering city streets,
      wearing clothes to match
           the changing divisions of the year;
 
a misshapen
    Modernistic sculpture
       rises in front of me                           
           an agony to my eyesight.
 
“What is it supposed to symbolize I wonder.”
 
if only
a soaring eucalyptus tree
with leaves that give off a pungent scent
grew here in its place, sculpted by nature itself.
 
ahead of me, a streetwalker
    dressed in faded denims and dirt 
       with matted hair,
           harvests empty cans.
 
his needs not met
his stomach unfilled, he has no one to impress either.
as I walk by, I observe
 
blue and white-collar workers pass– disgust written on faces  
 
i whisper an old adage,
 
                                    Status.

A poet paints on parchment

          The words I read echoed, resonated within
        
  kindled fires, awakened emotions

           suppressed buried;

                   I reached out a child seeking to touch a star -

           the intensity-consonance of the language drew me

a moth to flames;
 
           for within those words emerged a picture, etched

on the canvas of my soul

           and I knew I had to paint.
 

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