bespectacled
I’m such a monkey.
Not the one in spectacles alone,
Nor merely the jazzman of a jest,
Though I confess the monocle sits well
And my fingers suit blues-notes’ fest.
I’m also the monkey on a temple wall.
I’ve sat framed in incense smoke
And watched old women leave fruit at my feet.
I have stolen offerings with the same hand
They thought was blessed.
Children laughed at me.
Priests bowed past me.
Tourists photographed me.
And none agreed on what I was.
Speak abounds of impossibilities.
Yet I have learned that men reserve their awe
For what they cannot classify.
Dress a monkey in a monocle,
And he becomes absurd.
Place the same monkey beneath a shrine,
And he becomes a messenger.
The monkey changes less than the gaze.
So when it’s said a rival is as likely
As some jazz-playing primate,
I wonder which part seems unlikely.
The monkey?
The music?
Or that something ridiculous
Might deserve reverence?
I have listened to poets before.
They come carrying crowns fashioned from hunger.
They search for equals
As kings search for neighbouring kingdoms.
But I have sat among troops of my own kind.
No monkey seeks a rival.
We steal, shriek, groom, leap,
And in our better moments
Teach one another where the fruit grows.
Perhaps that is why questing search failed.
With crossed oceans looking upward,
Scanning peaks for a solitary figure.
Meanwhile the creatures dismissed as noise
Were already answering one another.
As for me,
I could play jazz.
Not well enough for worship.
Not poorly enough for pity.
And should competition be wished for,
Meet me beneath the temple eaves at dusk.
Bring your meter.
I’ll bring my syncopation.
The old women will leave fruit for neither of us.
And that,
At last,
Will make us equals.
.
