sisyphus’ foil

sisyphus’ foil

By E.P. Hughes

he puffs, desperately and damply, 

in his mind, he never stopped running like a little boy. 

first or last breaths, 

poured entirely into his harmonica, 

nestled in his soft palms like a baby blue jay, 

whimpering notes, emerging like the unheard prayer 

of a car-crushed dear. 

his wheezing throws him off balance, 

rotund form swaying over thin legs- please don’t fall

old oak 

wrinkled hands grasping for the planter behind him, 

on which lays his white cane, 

red end like sunrise on the black concrete, 

you can’t hear the music over his breathing, 

ragged and soft like a sharp spade through damp earth, 

like he’s fighting the soil over his own 

proposed coffin 

when it begins to rain, 

something inside you cracks, 

you watch the water run straight down his bald head, 

and into his clouded eyes, 

but he doesn’t notice, 

he only continues his delicate musical muttering, 

and allows the crisp cash in his jar to slowly melt, into paper pulp.

you’ve begun to cry for this perfect stranger, 

because despite the total contentment behind his upturned lips,

you cannot imagine him happy, 

there is no sisyphus here, 

he extends to you a quiet and intimate hospitality, 

the bearing of self only present in that grasping quality of poorly played music. 

your tears seize you in a vice 

and for a moment hear your own lilting flute, 

floating into nothing as your breath dies, 

as inevitable as the rain itself 

rocking you into tranquil nightmares of mundane suffering

and the suffering of the mundane