Poetry Vault: Look at Him

By Zach Hively
Images Courtesy of Zach Hively

An ode to not staining clothes with chile

This poem came to mind recently for a simple reason. When I feel overwhelmed with the state of the world and everything in it, it’s easy for me to get caught up in too much wide-ranging thinking.

What helps me is focusing, if only for a moment, on something as simple as breakfast. Or as peculiar as another human being.

Perhaps it’s a meditative act. Perhaps it just brings me back to my five (or more) senses and reminds me to breathe, to eat, to be present—without any of which I can’t do a darn thing about anything else in the world.

Look at Him
 
He is a museum piece
sitting down to breakfast.
Hair combed with pencil lead,
shirt pressed from canvas,
eyes crinkled in clay.
Instead of him
you see the dedication of his earthen self
to this day.
Instead of him
you see the ablutions required
just to sit down
a clean slate
to a plate of red chile
and a cup of black coffee.
Instead of him
you see the inevitability
that canvases must be painted
and foreshadows come to fruition.
 
His every bite
a tightrope act,
and you would drop coins in his hat
for the performance
for his cool dedication
for making you feel the primal wonder
that anything could happen
and this time, you
might be there
to see it.
 
He sops up the chile,
swipes the plate with a tortilla,
and before
the unthinkable
inevitable
happens
the waitress clears the stage.
He’ll be back, tomorrow
and the morning after that,
hair combed with pencil lead
and shirt still pressed
from fresh canvas.
You’ll see.