easter sunday
walking seventy-fifth street
with my wife
in the kind of sunshine
samuel beckett and i both hate
baby carriage psychos
pushing moon-faced mutants
along the pavement
the church steps are full of people
in their dead men suits and whore heels
all love to god but little left for humanity
what sick dullards they are, i think
as roasted pig flesh permeates the air
oh, i have holes in my shoes on easter sunday
holes in my spirit that can’t be patched
by anyone’s savior
and four more hours to go
before i can forget them all
this holy artifice
by having that first glorious
and life affirming
drink.
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