USA – Candleships

This is not my story.

It belongs to the man in front of me in line at the spirit shop, stealing liquor.

Old hands with a handle of rum shimmied into a cloth tote touting

Small Business Saturday.

Sir — firstly, it’s Sunday, and you’re not helping business.

But as they yelled you out the door, casket of amber glass torn from your grasp,

I understood how you came to be —

stealing

liquor

at 1pm

in Center City

Philadelphia.

I’ve been scared myself,

but the stress of time and anxiety of facing God every single day

has hit you so much harder than I. And eye to eye,

I see how the diamond-shaped bottle top looked attractive on the shelf.

In removing it to drink you could have used it to cork your achy joints,

plug your malignant growth, stopper your untreated pain.

I understand.

You could have massaged the liquid down your throat

to fill the empty feeling.

You deserve better than your circumstances, Sir.

And while I stood silent as you left,

now I’ll pray for you.

Something they don’t tell you is that there’s a magic garden

in every courtyard in Philadelphia.

Gardens made of glass, and tears, and gunfight.

And through it all, as the sun sets,

roses creep out of window-barred pots and slither to the streets –

every atom in the city chasing that faint ocean air.

The city of symmetry, city of two rivers – entre fontaines,

je t’aime from here to there and back again,

the Atlantic rolls between us.

In the meantime, I’m eating up spoonfuls of Sundays

I’m all too willing to give.

And in this time I’ve hidden myself in every corner of the city,

every bustle in the suburbs, here I am,

sarcastically.

Found in yarn stores in South Philly,

fingers running through the strands

despite the weight of cheesesteak in my hand.

Resting the holy hollow of my body in a Temple cot in summer;

ring around my toe and vision hazed

in vodka-sparkled saturation.

On my knees in a bathroom or two in West Philadelphia

setting tiles in the floor of a soon-to-be home

so a single mother can breath a little easier for a little while.

And out here on the Main Line,

wrapped in white sheets, a pen in my mouth,

listening to that goddamned bell toll,

Waiting for the gift of Sunday exploration

in the holy city of gardens and love.

Tag: USA

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