City serenade
In slow, slow motion the stick comes down:
a man lies bleeding in the street.
Soon the blood will stop its desperate running.
It’s not a sight or sound uncommon to the city.
Cars go by and sirens call for witnesses,
who need not carry red-striped canes
to tell the cops they didn’t see a thing.
No angels coming down to fetch the body.
Someone called the press.
Two rookie journalists are talking to a priest,
who stopped for a few moments
but has nothing much to say.
The priest is in a hurry.
He needs to lock the church doors for the night.
Faith is keeping office hours now
and God ain’t into house calls anymore.
Then the ambulance is gone.
The blood is wiped away.
Life of a sorts goes on.
Somewhere in the city food gets cold
to a cop’s wife’s lonely curses.