Ensor

There, garland dandelions round that idol with a corn husk face &  beard patched with rat stubble from a barber’s dust pan, parade float driven by a carriage pulled by a pig. Two sticks knotted together, cake frost on that crude wood to make it gilt. There, spider cranks &  iron gyres, blueberry stain glass sprout like wings from coal burn cars, a trumpet toots the sorrow of another boy dead, there he is, limp on a gurney wrapped in gingham scrap, there, he’s blast. There, roofless houses, sarong utopias balloon, balloon toward the sky, while women beat, beat their skulls. I trail behind, mop in hand, sloshing scum water over memorials. There he stares at my tic-torn cankered face, &  begs for alms, his face horse rudder red. A son, he huffs, it is a son I want. I spit into them corned mitt hands.