Mercy Street Is Closed

At the end of Mercy Street lies a forgotten wharf. A single row boat is moss covered. The battered vessel is moored and unwanted like leprosy - conducive to an invisible cancer. Two splintered oars imitate antennae - receiving distress signals from no one. The dinghy will not row towards God. The boat will not sail past Bergen-Belsen or Dachow nor will it glide 'gainst Newton. Mother wouldn't allow such a spectacle. Tommy doesn't sleep on bottle caps anymore. Tommy and Mother are content now. (Tommy is dying) Tommy's back is not broken like a scarecrow - (for he is good). His leg is not twisted like a licorice stick - (for he is cloaked in servile flattery). Tommy doesn't skip like a river nor shine like a sapphire. Kevorkian wise and Barabbas blamed; he grimaces - he swallows Mother's red roses; knowing when he sweats - (in the afternoon funeral festivities) he'll smell just like her. The darkened sunlight - (which Tommy cannot see) throws itself between two clouds marking a dramatic entrance! Tommy's knees are broken yet he still dances - obviously dumb-founded and matriarch approved. Tommy hyperventilates and chokes. Tommy eschews Mother's American beauties and externally regurgitates the memories he can't (internally) understand. A single groove migrates the needle into ambient static as Tommy washes his hands. Tommy simply washes his hands and whistles. (He simply washes his hands) and whistles...