A Broken seesaw behind a gas station laundromat looks like a babysitter.
The Burgundy pinto on cinder blocks is a home for
fruit flies. They sing over chef Boyardee in black bags on the curb.
My blind heavy mama begging Jesus for quarters.
Down the way past the oxen knocking on gates,
the snap of paddocks
and those in costume and wigs pretend to be British.
The stink of horseshit on the pebble road;
The fife and drum marching through piles.
All before your slobbery kiss in the closet behind an altar
just before you straightened your collar, shook the incense
the organ moaning your appearance
The sacristy is a kind of coffin for
All creatures great and small