While passing through
The Albuquerque airport
I saw Caravaggio in chains;
Thick ones on his wrists,
Thin ones that tinkled
Around his ankles
Hobbling his stride.
He was being transported
By federal marshals
For crimes against orthodoxy.
One was muscular, handsome, Hispanic.
The other wore a Hawaiian shirt
And an expression
That said
Murder is always justified
To maintain the status quo.
Even humbled by captivity,
Caravaggio had a somewhat sinister air.
So did the tears tattooed
In the corner
Of his eye,
And the spider web on his elbow.
The artist and his two guards
Were given special handling
At security.
I lost sight of them.
But later they were seated
On stools at the counter of
All Aboard Noodles.
Caravaggio was seated in the middle
Eating from a steamy glass bowl
With a porcelain spoon,
Slices of pink pork
Like poker chips
Floating in golden broth
White noodles looped
Like calligraphy.
Trying not to stare
I passed them by.
When first class was called
For my flight to DC
I made a last minute trip
To the bathroom.
Caravaggio stood at the urinal
Dick in manacled hands
Pissing loudly.
The Hispanic marshal
Stood one step behind him
A respectful distance
But within easy arm’s reach.
They spoke like
Business acquaintances
Which I suppose they were.
“When we woke up this morning
I had to scrape the ice off
The fucking windshield.”
“Where did you guys
Stay last night, Los Alamos?”
“I don’t know where the hell we were.
He was driving.”
The marshal spoke perfect English,
But Caravaggio had a heavy Italian accent.
I was surprised
He spoke English
At all.
I wanted to say,
“Signore,
Over the years
Your art has given me
So much pleasure.
Thank you for creating
All that beauty.”
I wanted to say,
“That bowl of noodles
Made my mouth water.”
Under the circumstances –
The US marshal,
The chains,
Carravagio vigorously shaking his dick –
I said nothing.
They walked out together
Law enforcement holding the elbow
Of a ground breaking artist
Gone bad.
I was filled with regret
For gratitude unspoken.
For passing on the noodles.
Busy In the Flesh © 2013 James Conant
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