Playing Statues

I stand on a wooden box in the street,
stock still, eyes cast down and hear
the bronze bowl clatter with loose change
from those who move in the heat,
drink iced water and sport shady hats.
I smell hot-dogs, hear the blues, feel
the sun flame hotter on my shimmered skin.
Merciless rays close my eyes and stick them
tight under gilt face-paint, now melted down.
A waxy stream of gold pours through my mouth,
my nose, drowns me in toxic liquids. Me,
parched, a sun-drenched pauper in this town
of wealthy clowns, who laugh as I fall prone
to meet my gods, within a pool of putrid vomit.