Day 23: I swear I use no art at all

I labored for days over the mould, modeled 
  on the sacred bust we keep by the copy machine.

I melted and poured. He congealed. And I waited 
 for my Shakespeare to cool. 

In a leather chair near my office window,
 I unpacked my heart with words

I suspected he would love. I tried to sing
 an iambic birthday card for the bard,

to rhyme antic-disposition with something—
 though manic-precision was off.

I am lost and unable to weep, am an ekphrastic 
 poem of my own sorrow.

I am soothing my inner Iago, Gertrude, Goneril,
  am nothing more than a fishmonger 

with a little plastic genius in my pocket.
 The hole, though, I left in his head,

large enough to hold a candle, has healed
 over. And we are singing at the film festival 

on his birthday, watching Hamlet for hours
 on a screen as vast as the globe.

Note: I'm grateful to KJ for the challenge to make an ekphrastic in response to his lovely birthday poster of the bard. Tomorrow, I will also post a blog entry on my evening at Ebertfest, where I really did see K. Branaugh's 4 hour Hamlet in 70mm glory.