the streets seethe with raw-throated cries of
pilate fears the crowd more than the wrath
of a god he doesn't know except for innocence.
their hate blisters in this air
brown fawn's eyes beneath a crown of thorns but i
am in the crowd neither screaming nor crying
only dreaming of dinner, of sleep,
which need for the distraction to end.
blood steaming from the jagged whips but
he isn't mine so why
standing in the midst of all these stinking bodies pressed
together in the dust
the sun is coming down--
. . . when's lunch?
lukewarm, spat out upon this rotten stony ground
i watch the naked man upon the tree.
except, i don't
watch him at all. just pass and glance at him,
toss him a passing afterthought
and wonder why this jostled, moaning, angry crowd
doesn't have more important things to do