Elderly Rainbows By Jasen Sousa
He desired to shape concepts into objects
unknown by man. Instead, that which bubbled
inside his head transformed into dented
cans that looters wouldn't bring back
to their sacred land.
He wondered how to mold abstract ideas
into something concrete that would serve as foundation
for cities and paved streets. Instead they sat, untouched
by human hands like sand on winter beaches.
He hoped for something specific, like tales
written on wooden ship sails, memorized
by the Atlantic and Pacific. But it's like
he never existed, slept in the same house
that became empty as the gambler's account.
His growth rested underneath barriers
of skin and pleasure like lawns
buried underneath frozen leaves and snow.
His desires sat like used cars with
fog on their windshields and a slight drizzle
on their frames, as brush grew along
sagging fences weighed down
by the poet's unwritten sentences.
He wanted to find a way to bottle rainbows
in oil-slicked puddles, before they disappeared
like eyeglass dents on the elderly man's nose,
before it was too late to notice what he swept away.