he has a stained biretta he has a
long-standing collection of joint pains he has a
liquor cabinet he's sweating out
through his summer pores in the ultimate hotbox: the confessional.
over familiar with the wood.
scratches and semen stains on the listener's side.
he speaks aloud, as one will do in
church saying I'll ask the questions here as
one will do in their one way street with God.
why the frothy bitch with the studs in her lip and her
fucking cocaine tossed in my lap with no job,
why let her survive the operation instead of her mother.
why leave one man with his trash and take what he chose
to call treasure for better or worse.
she steps out of the other side
hurried sunglasses on ballcap head
down walking briskly now sprinting for the door he
does not even notice her leave.
unlistening to her heels tapping on God he continues
why try so hard to hide us all from the light.
at least the dark is sincere.