Malodious hands stretch out
spreading Hail Marys and diminished Praise the Lord's
soothing the feeble minds
of the unwary patron
whose only concern is himself
Light, poison laced words spew
from the faux certainty that coats their lips
reassuring the weak mother
gazing after the soul of her stolen, swollen
sand encrusted son
They can almost smell that green-clothe paper
worth to much to those who have it all
the foul stench of the death of love
means nothing next to that
though the mother can still smell the ocean on her son
That mother can taste the salt water
rich, bitter, full of tender memories
wrapped within their coma of no meanings
they can taste cordiality and fright
it tastes like a warm summers day.
She reaches out to touch his face
the bloated tissue confusing under her fingers
she can hardly recognize his features
but they can see them perfectly
delicately traced in green notes, sordid, splendid
