On a day of wrath
in an angry season
He keeps to the room among his hidden things.
Without, an ill-tempered beast now beating windows;
without, the work of a son of Adam freed,
a creature of the elements, unlike such creatures
never born to be but a made man of necessity,
a made man of necessity
in a darkened room among his hidden things.
Without, a sky gone mad demanding obeisance;
without, the sacrifice of Abel on the altar of commerce
spurned, lesser gods not knowing how to choose,
his mark not made, his dreams of Eden dreamed
in breaths amid the labors of necessity,
the labors of necessity kept waiting
in a darkened room. Among his hidden things
he is concealed. Who would search would only find
yellowed crayon drawings of children once, no more,
an idle watch of an empty pocket gone to rest,
photos of a black and white nature turned gray,
the quilting of fingers bent to the image of necessity,
the quilting of necessity left behind
in a darkened room. Among his hidden things,
hand me downs to a son of lesser estate,
an heir to paradise disinherited by fate
to the storm, he sees the light of a distant day
on the horizon, not knowing if it comes or goes,
sure today it rains while he forestalls necessity.
