Alone and broken, the stone carrier, worn thin
reaches a decision. He listens to birds in spring.
Life was not owned by him. He is dispossessed.
Every day might get better, they say. Such faith.
My hands weather but you should see my insides,
he tells them. Blind, they turn back to TV screens.
It is easy to have faith in gods you do not need.
He is ready not to believe. This is no longer real.
The birds sing because they do not care for him.