Telephone Pole

Like Atlas, he stands
clutching the cables necessary to link society,
he lifts his bonds high above his head
yet never tangles a wire.
Cast in cold cement
like a corpse in the mud
at Waterloo,
he cannot fight back.
He suffers the scars of
cigarette burns and bumpers
bicycle chains and frost bite
chewing gum and paper maché.
Behind splintered lips
he bears staple-teeth,
flying too many flags for one name:
-work for cash
-apartment for rent
-garage sale
-lost pet,
flags placed in his hands
and ripped away again.
His breast-plate once shimmered
with a crest gold and green.
Now he is naked,
his supple skin chips away
to reveal the metal bone within.
One must wonder:
Did we chip Atlas’ hands away
when he tried to hold the world in place
before
or after
we decided
we didn’t need him?