This Is My Religion

A silver angel made of tin Stands in a roadside window. She sees a man asleep on a bench, A bum. A bum dreaming The kind of dream From which no man Should be awakened So he has to face Another day in hell. She's Bunuel's exterminating angel. Her target--the indifference of repetition: Mailboxes, mansions, Mercedes, Chez Suzanne, Maytag-wash, Adults-only, Donuts-delight, Hamburger-hots, 7-11/convenience, Lawns, shrubs, poodles, Men watering everywhere, Satellite dishes, TVs blaring, Ice cream cones, Vacant park benches Waiting to comfort The comfortless. Light jettisons from her metallic core, Dissolving all views. The bum rises--Lazarus-- For a nation That waits to redeem the lost.