POEM - The Constant Companion

His are hard hands, long and cold,
Encrusted with dirt that makes a corrugated skin -
Solid, stiff and stony hands
To do the work he was made to do.

On Ash Wednesday, dark hands
Smudge me black as soot -
I - I carry my father's fleshy hands
And impressible heart,

Pulpous as loam -
As obliging as a pornographic dusk.
I hold a tight leniency for all things in this world,
Yet, still I declare fealty to the constant companion

Whom I wear on my head like a third eye -
Who waits with me, as still as first snow, while I sleep;
Who watches over me, as I roust to face the day,
I dispatch him as just one more errand to be attended to

At some future date, just another appointment.
Pain waits to be assuaged by the constant companion
Who carries my name scratched deep, deep,
Deep into the mystery that is his breath.