| Subject: Sunday In Brooklyn |
Author:
Heartstarter
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Date Posted: 21:31:41 08/22/01 Wed
Author Host/IP: spider-tr022.proxy.aol.com/152.163.201.182
Sung Mass at St. Vincent's, scrubbed-necked
herds crowding up Third Avenue, we migrated
towards salvation, mindless birds fed on fat
sweet seeds that tasted of guilt.
Wops, Spics, dreamy Micks, we knew the responses
better than Faddah. Blessing and kneeling, signing
the cross in synchronization, confirmed automatons
dressed in shiny suits and cheap skirts.
Every son's mother wants an altarboy, swinging
strings of ritual through the throng. Sharp smoke
cut the stench of sweat and sin, stung eyes
leaked forced tears of retribution.
A mortal sin to miss Eucharist, we all feared
death outside a State of Grace. Last night's drunks
and paid-for pieces drank communion wine like shots,
singing "Mea culpa, mea culpa" as a consecration toast.
We sat in squirming silence, contrite sinners praying
to the Blessed Mother that Faddah put his effort
where is Dogma was, listening with hot impatience
for the final sanctus to sing our release.
Ite missa est, ite missa est, contio. The exodus
exploded the sanctum in a sudden flood of
repented relief, and tomorrow our compulsive confessions
would sound like so much weary brag.
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