The road to Damascus
a cat mumbles in the corner.
a cop on the curb
waves a pen in circles;
someone's eye tries to follow.
you hear the strobe lights pulsing
and skulk from the house,
your parka hood zipped over your face
looking like a furry Pez dispenser;
you eyeball the officer's pistol
and ask to inspect the bluing.
his partner takes your name
and escorts you inside;
he warns you about a three-legged pitbull,
but his arm feels too heavy on your shoulder
and his badge flashes red and blue.
inside the wind bites worse.
the woman on your bed tries to come,
and the man tries not to.
a daddy long legs munches cat hair.
a light in the hallway
pulls you closer;
it's covered by a Mexican wrestler's mask,
with a brown Mohawk;
you try to focus
as you wade into its eyes.
behind the bathroom door
you hear a woman's stifled laugh,
a man's grunt
and a flush.
you feel your toenails getting thick.
you want some eggs
but can't find a skillet.
at a make-shift bar
and Robot from Lost in Space
come to blows
over a winner-take-all game of Hands Down.
fifty pennies crawl out from the couch cushions,
from the drawers of the sideboard,
from the pockets of the jeans heaped in the corner;
they roll themselves into a wrapper.
a man with a banjo and a lisp
to a woman holding a Popsicle;
she opens her compact
and bites his leg.
you reach for an ashtray
and the Blessed Virgin reveals herself
in the grain of a bookcase.
you unzip your hood
and long to pray.