THE MAN WITH A SINGLE CALLUS

They stare with deft consideration at the man with a single callus
For him they will allow the fine, red grains of simple agitation
To lift and billow, to cake and sting the wiry hides
Of their beasts as they rein them in and stare

They feel sorry for him when he pours water for them
And expects them to cup their palms
They feel sorry for him when he levels a hill to create a smooth
Thoroughfare and they raise it up again
They feel sorry for him when he offers them glasses to protect
Their eyes from harsh light and they accept the gift,
All the while gazing nakedly upward at the sun's totality

They are saddened when he says solemnly, '!El hombre es un animale
Politico!'

Politics didn't raise corrugated ridges of basalt and melanin above
The brow line, in deference to the incorrigibility of the sun
Politics didn't swathe a cherubic twain initially in the soft flesh
And poignant lashes of a parturitive cradle and then allow the
Desiccated and sunken livery of a sense scenic socket to be the
Enduring pairs' perennial guise

They feel sorry for him but they do what they can; they stare