Desperation is the language
Of men in gray suits and women in
Gray dresses who count digital money
As if it mattered;
The language of the men with the
Combovers and the women with the
Horn-rimmed glasses with shining
Clear fingernails constantly
Glancing at the expensive watch
On their thin wrists that pulse
With fast food, caffeine,
And a million multicolored pills.
There is a computer in his back pocket
And he has never heard the angels.
Her purse is made of leather
And she has never ridden on a horse
Or even been on a farm
Encased in the stench of manure
And hay as opposed to the familiar wonderful
Fragrance of the gaseous air
That lurks in the alleys and the white
Smell of processed food
In the offices and the campuses.
They will laugh and cry about it all again
In Limbo and hold one another
Like a crucifix at the end of a row
Of pretty rosary beads, at the end
Of a row of pews, at the edge of the feet
Of marble Jesus, who stands and cries tears
As heavy and beautiful as the Brooklyn Bridge
And is powerless to adjust his crown
Of thorns, for his wrists are bleeding
Drops of blood as big and beatific
As the stock exchange.