Judgement day.

Are you to judge me,
a tinker with her airs and new
learned graces?
Nose hoisted high
sky blue eyes, let’s pretend
silver traces.

I knew you when you had
a less twisted face
and a smile that outshone
the silver bumper of your
old man’s Mercedes.

Piss poor, born
on the wrong side of
a swinging half door,
a twin of greed and sin,
deafened by the sound of
rain on cold tin.

As stretched as
knicker elastic, the coin of
charity jingling in a palm
that shakes in an addict’s
palsy.
The scent of spirit, the burn.
And you learned quick
enough when to stay and
when to run.

Your dull eyes reflect
the wealth of the men
you lay down with,
Do you take joy in it, does
lust erupt beneath the lift
and fall or is it all of no
account too.

Do you feel shame when
you look away
from the host of grey that
congregate beneath the
downtown railway bridge?
Do you still fear the fall,
the call of whiskey, neat
and sweet rolling off her tongue,

The burn of a palm across a
dirty cheek? The meek did
not invest the earth with oil
and gold, they sold that
right to sleep at night
on satin sheets and eat food
that lies like clay in
bloated bellies.

-Dave Kavanagh

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