Sunday Mornings
Fingers move
Like rabid children
Stalking the future
Gliding over
Ravaged sheets
Covered in evidence
Of little deaths
Like proud battle scars
Eyes open to confirm
What hands reported
From the crime scene
Perp has left the building
Leaving behind
Bloodhound trails
Of sex and perfume
Double helix stairways
Forensic signature
I cannot read
But well paid
For her stories
Slow pile-driver
Hammers behind
Glossy windows
Still bloodshot
Gray matter mosh pit
Throbs to the pounding
As the Merry-Go-Round
Blurs images of
Scattered colored glass
That once held
Magic potions
Which brought me here
Sunday morning rituals
Shit, shower and shave
Bread, wine and confessions
Weekly redemption
Costing less than
Saturday’s sins
