Papier-mâché houses
built at the water’s edge.
Painted structures
in nostalgic colors
to remind their dwellers
of youthful summers on
visions of historical postcards.
Those who carry crosses are
gathering
to wash their savior’s blood
from their hands.
Like children playing at the water’s edge,
the water pools around their feet.
Mother of us all
washes away their tainted selves.
The sound of the tide
echoes the laughter
of the gulls.
Envious creatures protesting to a broken man.
He hears their complaints,
taunts;
he attempts
to answer them, properly.
They cannot understand his prophetic words.
He expels the air
from within him
tiny rivers
ripples within his eyes.
The hecklers don’t
understand him,
protesting louder,
with deeper convictions.
He tosses pieces of bread
in a defeated gesture,
accepting his own fate.
The heckling clowns
gobble up the old man’s offering
of peace and reconciliation
still
laughing
as they fill their bellies.
