I'M Bored
He could clap like it hurt his pink palms
and regard us with sacred considerations
Promises, words, meaningless, bland,
created for every special occasion,
Words waved like proud embattled flags
Or he might rub noisy skin on cold hands,
like desiccated snakes in brown paper bags,
before describing some special acquaintance
Yes, confabulations will fly to beat the band
I, a boy, supposed he smelled like laundry,
This holy man privy to the grand plan, with his
coal tar soap, his shoes so polished for Sunday
We will sing
like we mean it
Sing with a singular
Sing in the plural
Sing for life, for death
Sing against roof and wall
We sing, wise and fool
While he clapped for us all
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