I'm tired of seeing you boxed up
|
in cardboard and army fatigue, threadbare in 20 degrees.
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And I'll be walking around you so lightly,
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hoping that you won't disturb me
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from making my retreat, from making my retreat.
|
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A long time ago, we paved our cities over bones.
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We made cadavers into roads,
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and when we gave prayers, we gave them as donations
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and lingered with impatience
|
as the casket was shut on your fingers.
|
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You lost your face in the elements
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but God, I'm no sociologist
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with the ways and the means to recover this.
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But I'll stick my hands in the court of injustice
|
with five bucks for some AIDS orphans I've never met
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or for median-vendor veterans.
|
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So will you give me what I came here for?
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Forgiveness, nothing more.
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-----------------
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Prayers As Donations
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| After The Sirens |
