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.
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