IN DISREPAIR

Temple grates
keep hands from reaching,
but hands do

pry the exquisite
statues loose.
The temple is in disrepair,

as is the city
with no gods to return to.
As is the man

sifting through corner
trash, dragging an elaborate
felt bouquet,

tinsel-knit leaves, whorls of petals
and a bent sun-flower
stalk. His back turned from us,

hair matted and thick.
Leaning and rising
like the ghost of Bob Marley

singing One Love

 

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