Pontius Pilate

A draft poem inspired by the image above.

He sits in front of
his computer, lip
droop and stale air,
feet stretched ready
for summer, he is
counting the miracles
that didn’t happen,
speaking raisin
and cornbread, he’s
been lied to but still
unsure, the little boy
who got away is burying
a photo underneath
the banana tree,
underneath the heavy
smack of the most
awful mistake, but
he, the computer guy
will never see black
turn into silver.