He could not die

He is folded into the mundane quotidian; Stealthily displayed within the periphery, His stony scrutiny discomforts the blushing horizon.

He doesn’t move. It’s been months since someone’s visited him. Maybe he doesn’t know anybody around here anymore.

Why do you care? He’s got a flag, And a gun, And his clothing’s been out of style for a while. It’s embarrassing.

Still.

One wonders which crime could possibly merit this justice

Of peaceful rest drearily denied; Bound to a plinth, lichened to a demon; Propped up impotently in an imposing position;

A decoy or platter eagerly offered Like a mother’s daughter to her grandmother,

Elder Tabby

His gaze eventually drifts:

His head plummets. His body crumbles. His countenance fades.

He is unobservable.

Could this finally be

Finality?

Mathieu is most anxious when in a full room. He is least anxious when walking. He mostly writes about climate change and does not write about personal matters. He has one poetry collection and one degree. He lives in Dieppe, New Brunswick, Canada.

#mundane #periphery #scrutiny #horizon #flag #gun #justice #peaceful #decoy #daughter #grandmother #gaze #head #body #finality