Thirty-nine presidents
make a conflagration
when the likes of Bonnie
and Clyde feed the flames.
Apostles flared into twelve
colossal tapers dripping
over a black supper.
No lunatic sculptor
staggered through the wall
of smoke brandishing
the head of Marie Antoinette
like a torch. That visitor
gone missing twelve years
back was not found hidden
inside Sojourner Truth
or Ponce de Leon
when their skin ran down.
The fire left three teenagers
out of work, but relieved
to be free of tourists, school kids,
and being stared down all day
by what’s-his-name loitering
on his pedestal in the lobby.
For those kids, the display
didn’t evoke the smell of leather
or growl of a Porsche Spyder,
but that elegant concern etched
in his paraffin brow did convey
something James Dean knew:
The world is due for a meltdown.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 27, Issue 4.
David A. Bart is a writer from Arlington, Texas. His poetry appears in I-70 Review, The American Journal of Poetry, Poet Lore, Slipstream, Sixfold, Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review, Margie, Cider Press Review, San Pedro River Review, Illya’s Honey , Red River Review, Pinyon Poetry , The January Review and three anthologies from Mutabilis Press. He conducts creative writing workshops and teaches music on the elementary level.
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