is full of witches and
of goat hair and fuss
dust in all their weepy
cob-heads, I imagine;
but the traffic by Gethsemane
is a rainbow of destruction
designed to save the poor
the humble, the afraid
of tomorrow (and today half-
crazy). I’ll bet the bank
will never truly tally the crosses
whether Swiss, or plain cheese.
I remember there was a child once
in rags who sang songs on the street.
For supper, we had steak.
The BMW is in the shop—
waiting, a tad blasé.
Having crossed the microscope
to the microwave, rejoicing
over Real Housewives, and the blood-
bath of Spartacus…
(school shootings every other day;
burning our cities—making martyrs
out of criminals?)!
But the windows are getting froggy
with plague. Locusts in our cereal.
the Super Bowl in Jerusalem
is tottering near Cairo… strange,