Fifteenth Hour
At the stroke of the fifteenth hour
I grasp her pillow and pulling it
away from under her head I force
her look at me grimacing a pleasant
good morning my love as
the icy current becomes His
hurdle when He finds Himself
in an ambivalent state of doubt
never again comfortable
trusting Himself to conduct
a just opera preferring
to go up and down the river banks
rather than get inside
the fresh cool water and swim
as any sensible human might
the philosophical Death
shakes his graying head and
wonders what to do with the
vagary of a youngster with peach fuzz
beard yet not withstanding
that He holds the
fortunes of men on strings
as marionettes when winds are
terrorizing and the tempest howls
from the seashore for unfairness
here I stand with Death next to me
with all His silver hair and relinquishing
to an insipid teen the task
of repairing with common sense
this absurdity bowling over
the most stalwart witness
and the redundant question peals
from lips of a punctured
soldier ‘why?’ and the sharp knife of his
killer answering: who cares?
Libros Libertad 