CRUCES


CRUCES


For the bright young
sandy haired
squeaky clean
pure as a virgin
laddie in Springtime
General Director of
the Las Cruces
New Mexico
Rescue Mission

(for I had dialed up
City Hall one fine
Easter Sunday to kindly
ask directions to
the nearest flophouse
and they politely
instructed me to
register with the police

but I stumbled across
the Mission House
before the Station House
so this won't be another
one of those poems
about Cops and Hippies)

who kept a spotless kitchen
made us decent enough
tunafish and mayonnaise on
Wonder Bread sandwiches
washed down with wholesome
cold as a Witch's tit milk

but couldn't sing white
gospel worth a damn
likely never heard
Larry Norman belt out
"Why Should The Devil
Have All The Good Music"
but did keep a well tuned
spinet piano in the parlor

who kept switching
TV channels since
dang it
he couldn't decide
which he liked better
The Ten Commandments or
The Greatest Story Ever Told
so we ended up with
five and a half Commandments
and a couple of short parables

whom I didn't
trade more than
a dozen words with
but offered him one of
my extra blankets anyway

(folded and clean
and not used much for
lately we'd had nights
like the frying pans
Hades uses to cook
his chili burgers)

just for being nice enough to
put up a lost hippie blown in
from the Golden State of 
Sunshine and Sin who
didn't talk about religion
and smelled vaguely like
a horse trailer

But as I held out
the ancient broadcloth
all he did was look at me
in that funny way
normal folks do when they
don't know what to make of
my stringy blond locks
fringed deerskin jacket
and tuned out smile

Then without a word
he tossed that blanket
into a closet upon
a great pile of blankets
pillows and Band-Aids
milk and Wonder Bread
televisions and gospel songs

that he had put up
just in case The World
should come to an end
or something like that

and that was the only time
I saw him open that closet
because hey now
this was The Rockin' 70's
small town America's
homeless shelters lay
blessedly nearly empty

for most of us had to be
drunks or junkies or insane
or just too dang mobile
never to go home again

and when some
poor Joad family
drifted into a town
living like mice out of
their '63 Chevrolet wagon

the kids eating
lettuce sandwiches
their hair cut
patriotically short
their clothes
respectfully bland
their parents
barely whispering
bitter prayers for
the American Dream

folks would stop by
with bread and soap
some newspaper reporter
would find them
and himself a story
the mayor might even
come visit their tailgate
they'd all get their
picture in the paper
churches would
open their sanctuaries
strangers would offer
food money jobs
because everybody knows
kids need a roof and
a nice warm pillow

	* * *

Then it's twenty years later
and I'm alone sipping
sweet wine al fresco
in a postmodern cafe while
contemplating the check

watching the miracles of
NAFTA GATT G8 downsizing
maquiladores workfare
The New World Order
burning a hellhole right
through the deep pockets
of the national wallet 
not to mention my own

while in the alley behind me
homeless one-eyed old men
skinny as corpses that
somehow escaped the gallows
wearing broad-brim hats
leaning heavily on tall canes

share junkyard campfires
and bowls of raven soup
grumbling over the passing
of the age of hospitality

with homeless women crying
in the dust and the snow
for their stolen daughters

and olive-skinned bloodied
young men wandered in
from the urban desert
wearing crowns of thorn

and then I recall
while getting my wallet
a bit quickly so that
the nearby panhandlers
won't get their hopes up
and I don't have to make
yet another decision

that young missionary
singing in his parlour
dropping the mustard by
my floral design plate

and wonder if he retired
before the flood
if he still makes
his own sandwiches

if he found himself
a Mrs. Missionary
started up a little
cable network ministry
got into a bit of politics

if his new friends all
hate the unholy poor
and he hates his
gray Republican hair

then I imagine four
bloody horsemen riding
from God Knows Where
kicking in that missionary's
locked front door
looking for everything
like The Children
That Shall Lead Us

crying for loaves and fishes
like the multitudes on
the Mount of Olives
only the olives
have all been eaten
the blankets all
gone to moths

and all that he
has left to feed and
clothe and pray for
the Ending of The World
is an old spinet piano

and if I can remember
how he used to play it
just maybe that
will be enough
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