Untitled, London Bellman
Easter
Am I invisible? he asked himself
as vendor women pushing carts,
men doubled under loads of wood,
kids racing through the Zócalo
whisked past and through the form
he thought that he should be,
cathedral bells clanging demands,
hot grease sizzling, skyrockets overhead,
and he not there but somewhere else
reaching out a febrile hand that suddenly,
no longer his, tugged at his sleeve,
eyes’ hot flames scorching his cheeks,
the words God bless you! Please!
_________________
Robert Stout