Wedding Bells

glad tidings

from a dusty church—

wedding bells

Evening’s Work

Prostitutes lie down

for another evening’s work—

three monks chant matins.

Dreams go up in smoke,

flying through the ragged hole

she gouged in your heart.

The buzzards keep watch

as old women dab perfume

on their sagging jowls.

innocence

swept away by tears

childhood lost

She keeps coming back,

despite the laughter of God,

to the praying place.

A paltry paycheck

brings me to my knees, while tears

stain my last dollar.