I’d like to chip off a piece
to see what’s underneath. I think
beyond the gloss he’s white
as a sheet. They stripped him down,

spackled up his cracks, and filled
in his holes. They papered him in red tin soldiers
and vaulting poles. And when the paper yellowed
they rolled on purple paint. Coated it

in arms of an Italian saint. It went with the décor
of hanging wild horses on the wall and cherry
furniture. But spilled ink and perfume raised
the temperature. In darkness things are black.  Don't look

back. The cobwebs hang. I see gray sky,
and think it'll rain.