Holy Land, USA, Waterbury, CT

by

Thomas Michael McDade

After chin-ups snap
the crucified right arm
of Christ, the vandal
pummels lambs, camels
and asses, even saints with it.
At the Nativity, he shines
his flashlight on the EVERYDAY
IS CHRISTMAS stone
and wishes he could crown
the thieving son-of-a-bitch
who saved the Holy Kid
from his club.
Someday he’ll stuff this
midget city into
its own creepy catacombs.
If Christ’s limb would bleed
it might have the power
to fall the tall steel cross
that glows nights
for highway motorists.
That’s a joke, he tells himself,
cutting off a thought of a bloody
miracle flocking the pilgrims back.
Sparing The Last Supper mural
from a black lacquer coat
he turns
like a archbishop.
Placing two fingers around
the sacred chalky wrist he salutes
the fresh decapitated heads glowing
in cross light like ghosts of Waterbury
watch face painting girls snuffed
out by the miracle of radium.

NEXT?
Why don't you look at Thankful
by: John William McGrath III
from: Mesa, AZ, US

To visit all of Thomas Michael McDade's poems, click HERE

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