after Kotaro Takamura
Winter blares in from the road with me, an icy radio
Blast. I hang my coat, leaving in its inner pocket
Creditors’ papers, promissory notes, lots drawn
Against my few possessions, sculptures, sketches;
They would see them seized from me, trammel these
Remnants of my soul in glass encasements, bars;
The carver’s craft, the lithographer’s ecstasy of creation,
Swallowed by the world’s usurious maw.
Unaware, you smile. Imprisoned as you are under this
Pauper’s roof, amid wood whittlings, molded clay, you
Smile. As I unwrap this evening’s meal, red snapper,
Its simmered warmth dimming in my frigid breath.