It is Sunday. The old man in the cage
is wheeled through the town again.
His lips tremble with violations.
There must have been a time when he was young.
He signatures the air with words
they cannot decipher. He is no one.
Though some say he knows when time will end.
His face is a map of sins and visions.
The citizens baptize their cars, their souls
as white as the illusion of innocence.
They toss him mirrors and laughter.
He shows them rage and the seat of his pants.
He is the sum of all their ages,
guilty of a crime he can’t remember.
At sunset they return him to his cave
where he’ll remain till they need him again
to preen their jaded dream of being gods.