The Deposition

her eyes laugh at me
and her gestures wave too close to her
styrofoam cup-turned coffee cup.
A stale cookie, just one bite (she forgot she was fasting).

Small pots, cracked, grotesque,
hold life's soil, green spurts of grass
sit, sipping the sun next to
the window.

The stairs to the tower are steep.
I am tired, my socks are wet and
the tips of my sleeves,
they hang as I walk up the steps
limp,
stretched to my finger tips.

The shutters, broken and browning
hang, also limp, useless covers
to fogged windows. I see trees outside
and how they dance in the rain,
glad of it.

I turn and look down from the tower,
broken umbrellas have been strewn to the side of the street.
Their hoods are draped over their eyes,
how can they see?

The tower rattles in the wind.