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Ken Champion

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Pedestal

In a Barcelona street there are statues that aren't real.
They're people standing still
till the chink of coin elicits an arrogant turn of head
from a marble veined Columbus
or a smirking salute from a copper cast G.I.

And there's a bronzed centurion who raises his spear
and a golden pair of potentates who bow
as pesetas rattle their boxes
whilst a man carved from chalk with a guitar and a scowl
merely plucks a string as a grinning tourist drops a cent.

But it was the girl made from lead
with an errant wisp of hair, spinning her
grey rose and blowing slow kisses,
who entranced me into daylong gazes
at her Eliza Dolittle face and small sweet waist.

I brought her home a month ago
but it's too cold to play statues here so she dresses up
and stands in front of our mirror perfectly still all day
until I come home and place a penny in her little box
when she twirls her drab rose and pouts her lips.

And when in bed I touch her leaded hand
she shrugs and murmurs in that Catalan way,
I'm tired, I've been on my feet all day.

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