A poem from Appalachian Summer Songs.
Don’t worry, I didn't hear it last Sunday,
or the Sunday before so it’s nobody you know.
Or is it? It’s easy to condemn, point the finger, point the finger, point the finger,
but remember what Benedict said,
“Death lies close by the gate of pleasure.”
Words Heard At Coffee Hour After Sunday Service
She used to be a hooker
she and her sister over there
squat dowagers decked out in finery
reminiscent of spanish scenes upon walls
and purple velvet coverlets
in a motel not far from here.
You know the one,
just under the bridge.
They pour coffee now
unrepentant with assumed respectability
casting wanton eyes
at the preacher man
who parts his hair in the middle.
"Built for comfort, not for speed,"
one sister lisps in a lilting sort of way.
The preacher rolls his eyes toward heaven
and mutters to his god,
"Two soiled mattresses with broken springs
from carrying twenty nightmares a night
for twenty years or more."
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