"After pulling the drunk out of the gutter"
he asked if I was an angel.
Whoever heard of a strutting angel
without connections? I don't drag the dead to safety.
I throw stones at them. Just ask Joe Henry.
He lumbered into my dream, but he had a faraway
gloom, and I yelled on and on,
why didn't you call me, why did you go off to die alone,
you could have stayed with me, I loved you.
He apologized, but I wouldn't change how we kissed,
meant for the cheek, like a breeze,
like the sweetest sip of the lips.
You were the last man I wanted, Joe --
your Catholic Worker work. I always envy god people,
but their faith can't be snapped up, no matter how close I sit.
You save the world
one drunk,
drug addict,
one prostitute,
abused hurt homeless sad person
at a time. I just want to feel it,
but I'm always pulled into the background
hum, the flea market madness
with the haggling and salsa, the sip from the flask,
my hips sway then thrust,
jut and jut out
the music through me.
Mami, you're beautiful, lend me some money.
Wanna buy some jewelry, I think it's gold.
© 2008 Brenda Morisse
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