Nameless

Condensation drips down the glass as the first light
of day reflects ivory and spiderwebs. The nameless man –
self-grandiose and sinister – wakes in stench and decay. No,
there’s no proof for you and me; what’s there in that house
behind shades and garden-bed flowers? The plumbing hasn’t
worked in years, but the nameless man habitually stands beneath
the rusted shower head – waiting for the inevitable, envious rain.
Hours pass like years; the hand-cranked mechanical rooster can’t
keep up with the seconds, the tarnished face shows a different day.