sundayers.
Sundays are a beggar's boom.
I should have taken you out today.
You would have curled, contorted, as always,
in our quarter of the concrete reserved for our kind,
poised in alignment with the lines
that pattern the pavement-
Art is a luxury
that I (too) can afford and so I would have laid you
with grace, my love, as I always do.
such is the detail that befits a queen like you.
As you lie lifeless, lips wet
and eyes fixed as if dead, your grip on your rosary,
I usually sit back and labor to remind myself
of the substance of mind and self
half-safe in the confines of my Johari.
Staying sane, they say.
I tap in rhythm to the subtle stubs
made by the sound of rubbered soles
on the pavement, praying the music
rubs your soul to sleep, my sweet.
Usually its me it lulls to sleep
and when I wake I hate the sight
of disappointment in your cornea, pious white.
From where we sit they look like mountains, these passerbys.
Indeed they are. Rocks with ice caps.
In the reflection of their eyes I see what these sinners see in us-
mere bone and silicon
spontaneously generated in this valley (,never mined,) where they
throw ten-shilling coins.
I despise them;
their steely stares that leak how deprived of affection they are,
their dustless church dresses that follow suit-
never touching their hands or caressing chins or faces...
and their ignorance of it all.
They are poor and crippled with despair
While you sit there in a third-eye throne, willing their shillings
onto your burnt shriveled hands
that I'd never stop crying about if love didn't make all of this fair.
I nod in thanks,
my idea of also giving to the impaired.
They fear we could be God
but greed infects the fear in their thoughts
and so with so little to god
they bow and tremble before my beloved.
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