Reverend, was poor old Lazarus raised up after all
To save the rich man’s folks?
Under the bench, she rubs her crusted eyes, where she lies
Vested in some dead man’s clothes
As our shined shoes clatter past, the bells boom off glassy cliffs
Drifting slowly down
Onto the purring suburban engines of dark-suited men
Who shall inherit downtown

The boys demand to know if he’s white or black, and squint
Into his sun-browned face, framed with black curls of hair
He sighs, and, with his finger, draws sprawling maps
Of the Middle East into the hot damp heavy air
"So, are you white or black?" His mouth falls open
His eyes trace the patchy skyline, frayed by the evening sun
A green-neon crucifix crowns the steeple where, Sundays
His folks recite prayers in the Lord's dead tongue

Ten winding years, and I can't decide
Which ones to discard, and which ones to abide

All the crooked letters

Slow to admit what I can’t fix, I stare at the wall
Smudged and stark, sprayed with white light, a flickering page
The coffee’s burnt, the styrofoam sour
The creamer in clumps, the verses crumbling away
Beneath the daytime TV babble run the rattle and the whine
Of the impact wrench
Eyes fixed in space, the body man drags his hand over the seam
It’s not a straightening out, but a shaping over and over and over again
Three winding years, and I can’t decide
Which ones to discard, and which ones should abide

All the crooked letters