Murals
Eric Bonholtzer
Murals paint the way
Not the kind glimpsed in art museums
Or artist’s studios or even
Collector’s cellars.
No, they are half-glimpsed
caught from the corner of the
eye while speeding seventy
beneath freeway overpasses.
Relics. Remnants of a bygone
age when there was still some
semblance of an instruction manual.
Pictographs. Hieroglyphs.
A man clothed in a loincloth
of tattered rags, begging
for change at the corner of Fountain&Vine
said once, “Life was simple then.”
Modern marvels: age of miracles
of cellular sheets pulled over
eyes that once saw simply
Now muted beneath a gray black shroud.
In the desert somewhere, an arch stands alone,
a bent finger that once pointed
toward the heavens above
now bent, burying its face in the sand
until the winds of change
once again sweep it clean
Until it truly can be seen.
