Every Monday
you brought your Sundayfinest to the bus stop:
harsh words, hard fists
inflicted on the infidel
who kept Jesus
in her hope chest—
along with a copy
of Anne Frank
and a sugar-
sweet stopper
from a Drambuie bottle—
and who prayed
at night between
bed sheets to
whoever listened.
A good Christian boy,
you went to church,then spent your Mama’s
tithing coins on gum
and candy, spent
your envy on those
not forced to make
the Sunday commute
to a cross-covered
space, spent your
fear on those
who believed
in a different fashion.
You should have called me - I would have stood at the bus stop with you and gave 'em a knuckle sandwich.
ReplyDeleteYou really don't choose who you fall in love with, do you? Yes, that is ironic. And nice.
Your prose is, as usual, quite stunning in its powerful simplicity. I love the way you write.