a poem for my late sister Virginia - from 92
FOR VIRGINIA
we each live with our addictions (some more obvious than others)
each carry crosses ornately painted without our person insignia.
even paradise can be transformed into Golgotha
here where suffering is a lifestyle.
the wind sings "holy" & our rosaries are all broken
here where confessionals have video tape recorders in case god has a failing memory
& the water is no longer blessed & smells of sulfates
we each sleep with skeletons that we caress lovingly
each eat exotic dishes that fail to satiate
& lay prostrate before mirrors that reflect poorly
here where suffering is a lifestyle.
the poetry and rambling thoughts of a working class poet
