Small Town Skin

The church settled in like a low fog
and called itself The Saint Don’t Leave Me
I Couldn’t Bear It.

There was a wind, but it was getting tired
and wondered vaguely if distance
really meant what it used to.

For a long time, there wasn’t much to hope for.
There was a man spitting at his own reflection.
That might be something.

Inevitably, trash cans took over the town,
driving like maniacs and making rights on reds
in unposted hours.

The man is still spitting
but the reflection changes.
Spittoon or spitfire,
split pea or splinter.

Pews shimmered with the trash can tin like a lake
so that the church was forced to change
its name to The Holy Congregation
of I Love You Dammit, How Can I Make You See That.

The man was salting the air,
stitching a pearl heart from
the wind’s thinnest filaments.

Everything must have a home,
even here.

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