Anachronism x Two

Tess Kincaid's Mag 99

Image: Lee Friedlander

Why do you stand there,

looking down your nose at me;

in your fancy coat and knee breeches,

hands folded piously.

What are you doing in this world

of tall buildings, 

traffic fumes,

eyeless windows,

flashing images and

bleached skies.

This is my world,

your day has long gone.

Standing on your pedestal,

lifeless and immobile,

your presence here forgotten, overlooked, 

frozen in time,

with birds alighting on your shoulders

your only company.

What use are you.

You're nothing but a memory.

Why do you hang there,

beetle-browed and scowling down at me,

your shiny head

and pale visage

depicted on a poster.

No pedestal for you.

You're here today and gone tomorrow,

 the next-in-line already 

waiting in the wings,

as easily replaced as you.

I once was real, a man of flesh and blood,

you're nothing but a made-up storyline,

a flickering image on a silver screen,

unreal, pure invention.

My place in history is safe, 

I shall be standing here

until the cityscape itself comes to an end.

My shoulders will provide a perch for birds 

from which to sing,

When you are but a memory.