The Sculpture.

A sack of skin slung across a sculpture
Of bone, complete with cigarettes and a
Telephone. No thinker here, no riddle
In stone: just a sack of skin complete with
Mobile phone. Not bound to the seasons like
Other stones, nor bothered by birds - they all
leave him alone. Tragic? No, he seems quite
Ageless in his waking death, a badly
Shaved scarecrow still crowing when all the crows
Have left. And quite happy, too, or so it seems: his
Smile a smile that could sell magazines.

And Like his eyes, his limbs, his face and his phone:
Sealed like his fate and set in cold stone.