Hand on your
shoulder & abundant oil
for his lantern, climb in that basket
& leave your treasures
behind. His boots
are made for plodding, stomping,
finding fault lines
in the face of the Father,
the Son & the poltergeist
who showed up one day
asking for plates to break.
Rahovart plays with dolls
& you are the doll,
curmudgeon bludgeoned
by his stick, off his fiery
lawn, his dread record
collection, his foul commemorative
manikins, his tour posters, his home
office full of flayed
souls.
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