Stillness captures attention
on the hard slabs of Madrid streets
where feet beat tired and peckish trails
to gift shops, cafes and signatures of antiquity.
I have an aerial view of stillness.
Two bodies on a street corner;
male (sprawled), female (seated), separated
by curve of callous stone.
Separated by a manhole cover:
a date stamp on a postcard home;
a grey sun, lighter than his rag jacket,
shoes and thinning cobweb hair;
sadder than golden clay upon her skin,
and gold collection tin with female slot
set begging on satin drape.
Stillness: asleep, wrapped in his dirt.
Poison, drunk to deny dignity
sticks fingers in his dreams, but for now
there is shade and I presume, no pain.
The innocent curiosity
of sunny youth ends her famine.
A coin feeds the slot and breaks
the hymen of stillness.
She smiles;
as pleased to wave from stiffened wrists
as she is to receive a token
for her nameless still life.
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