Alphabet City

From the limbs of this sycamore
I have watched the holy
come and go since ever,
the start of Time.

I, the repentant collector,
the kindhearted harlot,
the leper, the beggar,
the lush.

ironic, I’m saved
despite more pious
and deserving of the Love
most deserved.

How many nights
have I housed a Messiah,
supped on simple breads

while eternity draws
the spinning room
tight about makeshift cosmos
that hover there for the eve.

My, how the gods can juggle,
with appetites without end,
despite their not being
of earth and space.

And in the morning
they’re gone,
leave behind
small smears of blood
from where the wounds
still heal.

© Chagall 2013