Up against the wall,
…sits odd statuary, sullen sadness
created by hand from nothing more or less
than general failures that anyone might
turn away from on some given day:
A house taken by bankers who would not
settle for anything less from two buyers,
work taken by a promise never meant,
a culture and language unfathomably
resistant to my resistance, failed art
unsold, books stacked in dusty piles
waiting for non-existent readers.
Walk away. We all walk away, they say.
Leave it alone. It doesn’t mean anything—
home, career, art—those broken fragments
of a mirror that once reflected a token self.
Now they show a dark fear, emptiness,
this heavy sculpture unwilling or unable
to step, sing, or share in the world
of carefree surrender—a listening post
that monitors the cries of a million children,
refugees, the screams of thousands
a day sacrificed in violence to bastard wars
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