Poetical Musings - 5. Fat Tuesday

The man commands the corner with

an ill-fitting countenance through

a frayed and filthy overcoat, blessed

with dirt or maybe

dried blood between dilated

bloodshot eyes, proselytizing

empty bottles from last night’s sermons.

Exuding Jesus and whiskey

his voice rings through

a matted beard, church bells

calling all ye faithful to look aside

and hurry past.

Across the street, drag queens stand

backlit by flickering neon

staining glass, huddling around a streetlight pulpit

against the warning billy clubs of

pissed-off deacons. They exchange epithets

with their chosen audience through

eyeliner and lipstick, soliciting tithes

from janes and johns who idle on

metal pews, adorned with rust

and a pair of fuzzy dice.

Which sidewalk should I take?

Who more deserves my

agnostic fallacy – the fallen ideal? or

the blatant disregard?

Both their plights prove

my lack of faith correct, for

haven’t I escaped their pain?