He's an old, time-worn
piece of wood with chips
on the knees, one on the forehead --
white scabs on one tough man-God.

The painters have turned off
the mariachi music on a
white-splattered radio, so we
can discuss sacred images.

And I notice, through the scaffolding,
the nails look as if they go through
his feet, the cross, and into the piano,

and his head, normally bowed
when the cross is upright, looks now
as if he's trying to get up.