Medieval Journey

Medieval Journey


Heironymous Bosch
comes to visit from Chicago.
We drink. I'm tipsy.

He paints
the friends I used to know.
The devil in a dead tree
with death playing a lute.
A barrel runs on two legs
tempting me with brew.
The city burns in the background.
Lake Michigan with asses
hanging out over the side of a boat
smiling at the gay sun worshipers
on The Rocks
at the end of Belmont Avenue,
their pale horses drinking from the lake.

Plates of bloody food.
human-headed birds,
and scarlet women.
Probably drag queens
from North Halsted Street.

I suspect I am the monk
reading from the book
in the center of the scene.
I am praying for all of this
to go away or
wanting to join in the orgy
of delights
and kept away
by a painful conscience.
All the rest die except me
or am I already dead
upon my knees
refusing to live life
to its fullest.

Go away, Mr. Bosch
and leave
my city memories behind
like years of cracked varnish
on an old painting.

You know too much about me,
dear Heironymous,
and now you've told everyone
about me
and how my life was lived
on my knees
in a cloak
my walking stick ready to support
my last walk through
a world of sorrows.



copyright (c) 2009 Barry G. Wick