A Peculiar Feeling at Noon

And after the vendors of thorns have sold out
And the audience has gone home with their stones,
A hip eases into its cross, to cut off the breath
That says, with a gasp, "it is finished."

But what becomes of those who wait much longer
Exposed to air? With more who love them
To kneel there and pray? The wait can go on for weeks
As the crucifix sways in the sky
And all they can think of is how they will die
As they hold on for something to remember.