Monoblock

A poet lived on the top
Floor of an apartment building.
And in the highest apartment
He happily dwelled.

He sang to things of the past,
To the moon without Collins or Aldrin,
To things that never fade away.

He didn't go to the movies on Saturday night
And on Monday he slept.
His artist's dream without a title
Or a doctoral gown.

Josefina washed his clothes
Whistling Piazzolla in bleach,
Inventing sins for Maria.

One day he got bored of living
And went for a walk,
And the next dawn
He appeared under the sun
Crucified.