Michael Thorne

 

 

 

Cartuja

 

 

I watch the fat man with the giant camera

Protruding from his chest like a wishful erection.

 

His wife and son trail behind,

The former apparently soaking in some essence

Of the spirit of this place;

The latter blankly following, an oblique fuzz

Emanating from the puberty of his top lip.

 

Will he ever look at these photos again,

really look?

Does he sense a shame

In the thick ornamentations made of Indian gold?

A sense of God in the marble floors?

The oneness of perspective among the orange trees in the courtyard?

 

Or is he just passing through, hovering

Not really here to assimilate

Just to look, snap and work up an appetite

Before moaning about the heat as he sits down to lunch.

 

 

 

 

 

Michael Thorne © 2009