1661 c/o Dave Shaw

Oliver Cromwell's Head

Oliver Cromwell's Head lights a cigarette and stares out across the Montreal skyline. It's nearing 0400h and he is still waiting for a call.

He can see Parc Jean-Drapeau in the distance and is reminded of the music festival he and Elizabeth had attended there in the summer of 1658.

Do you think Pavement will ever get back together?

The spike penetrating the top of Oliver Cromwell's Head is jagged and inconvenient, but he has learned to live with it.

No use in complaining, Elizabeth always reminded him.

These things just happen to some people.

The phone rings and Oliver Cromwell's Head allows it to ring three times before he answers it.

I'm not coming over; It's late, I have work in the morning.

Well, whatever.

'Night.

Oliver Cromwell's Head instantly feels guilty for the small sting of satisfaction he feels in cancelling plans. Elizabeth deserves better than that.

But what could she expect?

Oliver Cromwell's Head leans over the edge of the window to get a view of the street below.

Drunk people getting in and out of taxis. The dregs of the night.

Oliver Cromwell's Head is sick of waiting. Fuck this.

1660 c/o Lily Dawn

Oliver Cromwell's Head 

  
He stares back at us,
rotting up there
on his twenty foot pole.
The children laugh,
making fun of him
by throwing pebbles,
betting on who will be the first to
land one in his hanging jaw.
He is defenseless,
unlike when he killed King Charles
and crowned himself "Lord Protector."

You will rest up on that pole,
Mr. Cromwell,
for another twenty five years,
(save for the momentary removal for a quick roof repair)
until a strong-winded storm comes
to set you free.
For two hundred and seventy five years,
you will come to know the British museum circuit well,
until finally, some day,
you will be dropped back into the dirt,
three hundred years after you were lifted out of it.