.png)
My poem
The children gather around him
( After Janitor, 1973 Duane Hanson)
So close he might feel their breath
They giggle and point
Don’t touch their teacher exhales
He feels that too, her breath
Different though, sour and aged
Like his skin so frail
A thin veneer of wax.
He wonders what it might feel like
To be touched again
His creator’s hand, brush, tiny trowel.
He remembers each stroke
Modeled sockets and joints
A whisper to attach a lash
The tiny screw holding his glasses
The children crowd closer to see
When the teacher turns
To admire another work of art
The 2nd grade field trip moves
Slips into a new gallery
And the solitary work of being returns
The solitary work of being returns
Slips into a new gallery
The 2nd grade field trip moves
To admire another work of art
When the teacher turns
The children crowd closer to see
The tiny screw holding his glasses
A whisper attached to a lash
Modeled sockets and joints.
He remembers each stroke
His creator’s hand, brush, tiny trowel.
To be touched again
He wonders what it might feel like
A thin veneer of wax
Like his skin so frail
Different though, sour and aged
He feels that too, her breath.
Don’t touch, the teacher exhales.
They giggle and point
So close he might feel their breath.
Haunting in the best way, Janet. I felt "the solitary work of being returns" in my bones