He visits lost priests
to mumble-in-vain
for what?
His loose-lip prayers weave
over tremble-woven fingers –
This is the church –
this is the steeple –
look inside
and see the people –
God’s gatekeepers
cannot force the bolts –
not slammed
gavel-struck ones –
so he carries his sentence
out in public spaces
as drunken stumbles –
Ready the stocks –
they mutter to others –
He is a convict clapped
in cold iron hobbles –
Of his own bad choices –
manacles left visible
to every untrained eye –
they see another barfly
