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