Vertebrae

A rare day in May, and the city hot as a skull.

The marble ledge of the reflecting pond

felt cool, with the flow of bronze.

I sat there, in front of the Moore,

on my afternoon break

trying to get it,

lotus-style.

Is this giant puzzle piece serious,

or sincerely odd—a fossil of cosmic whimsy?

I’m not getting it. In some ways

it resembles a slow herd

of abstract cows.

Maybe he meant to create an ironic joke

on the people of the city always late for their bus

while his sculpture of flesh stripped to bone refuses to participate,

glows golden to their pedestrian concerns, standing

like a stern rockery in front of the courthouse,

standing there alone—like the law.

Who can tell what he had in mind?

I can tell you that children would understand it

with feet and hands if allowed to play.

Across the street from me, a man mounts the top

of a trash can and kneels on it to get a picture of the sculpture.

Another man comes along, with an appetite for food not art,

and bends head-deep, ass sticking out,

into the lower section of the can

the photographer steadies himself upon. And there they are—

in front of our eyes without benefit of a costume—

the queer conjunction of two men

pretending to be a horse!

Years…I tell you it will take us years

to climb an inch up these steep slopes of Mt. Kundalini.