good friday (butcher shop revisited)
alone
on the april streets
bob dylan whispering
hymnals
in my ears
all the precious
little catholics
must be
locked up in church
mourning
the continuous death
of their savior
i stop
at a street corner
searching
for something
sacred
for myself
but only find
two stray cats watching
the men
from the butcher shop
hoisting dead pigs
from the back
of a truck
onto three carts
lined with wax paper
and
grease.
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