The face on the park bench
has gathered a crowd.
It is smooth and thin and likes soda,
a folded can sits by a newspaper.
Flies and insects typical of
summer feasts and garbage
buzz around the crowd.
The face is not bothered by them.
The face belongs to a young man
with a tenor’s expression,
with the skin of autumn skies.
Eyes fixed on the clouds
with the deep look of glaciers.
Arms clasped together,
mimic the faithful stance
in paintings of the crucifixion.
The improvised stage
looses a little perimeter when
a trail of ants exits the mouth on the face.
I think of his mother and then of mine.
Someone uses a cell phone,
others murmur like insects.
No one touches god’s garbage.