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Poem

Enchanted by skylarks I surrender my time.
Day's sun unabated riveted me to broiling heat,
I stew in my skin. Every toxic thought
Pollutes my surface as is intended,
But corrodes and cankers their patron's heart.
The statue has a skin change too: skylark rest,
Merely superficial - smiles surfacing for air,
For culture goes deeper than color here.

Under the statue like a sheltering tree
I stand awed at my eroding liberty.
I count the red pennies, and watch the moods
Of racuos skylarks and people interchanging.
Standing diminished of labor's properties
And even the honesty of facade history,
I am watching skylarks sky diving for bread.
They all have long black wings
And they cry awfully; some say no one sings
Again, that rap is a longing to tell our own story.
I am listening neither rhythm nor art here
But a purposeful cry dense with bitterness.
The pennies I am counting fall, and do not roll.

Birds towering above me, on a sun scarred wall
Survey us ruefully as apart we fall:
Our ideas and paradigms like rubble and litter
The skylarks beyond our vision's fetter
Cry against the unexposed anger, the facade
That marked us polite as we crumble
Like old iron raw in salt mist and nitride air.
Under the statue of liberty the crowd mingles thoughts
In silence. The statue's massive, iron breast
Stilled, as the shrieking skylarks dive and digest
Crumbs of cold, callous film of charity
That goes easily to animals and birds, forsaking
The validity of man. Birds foment in the sky,
Skylarks still crying as the boats go pass.
A shadow with a fleeting cloud shifts and I see
The statue turns green, livid green, green as grass.

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