Empty Cans And Shoes... Poem by Eric Cockrell

the old blind dog curled in the memory of....
faces on milk cartons whisper in the pews.
the blade held steady against the turning wheel,
while armpits leave paragraphs for simple gods.

there is no gunfire here,
only the sound of haunted church bells,
and the gnawing of hunger in hand me down jeans.
the scent of black coffee and borrowed cigarettes,
and the lie of random snowflakes.

whose voice beneath the ground?
even the streets shudder with need.
the pimp and the street preacher,
both with something to sell...
someone else's body for your sins!

abandoned cars with broken windows,
used needles, Bibles wrapped in brown paper.
small boys walking without coats or names,
sirens wail and cash registers ring....

memories? breasts and moonlit eyes!
upturned lips, crosses of silk and birch.
ghosts wrapped in fingers of flesh,
and candles no one thought to light...
god lives in mirrors, empty cans and shoes!