In the sticky heat of a midnight confession booth
where the whiskey’s hour clings to my roots
and the preacher don’t ask no questions,
just slides me a cigarette through the grate,
and ask me. “No regrets?”
There’s a bullet hole in the lounge window
shaped like the state of Louisiana
and every time the Nickelodeon skips,
I swear I hear the ghost of that same shot,
“Pass the ichor, will you Pop?”
The preacher exhales smoke through his nose
a cigarette’s cherry, pulsing like dying crow’s eye
and the kind of lies that stick to my ribs,
better than a minuet’s last supper,
breaking the bread in my cell’s cozy.
Outside, the cicadas hum three octaves too low
a choir worth its salt, thinking I should have ought
like one eye locusts giving me an “aye,”
but the preacher ain’t looking for hymns—
“last burger’s for sinners who still got time.”
Cleverly penned, Adagio. Another excellent write my friend. Appreciate you.
Damian
Thank you, Damian.