Heard at the Men’s Mission
How many sons-of-bitches no one loves,
with long coats on in June and beards like nests—
guys no one touches without latex gloves,
squirming with lice, themselves a bunch of pests,
their cheeks and noses pocked like grapefruit rind—
fellas with permanent shits and yellowish eyes
who, if they came to in the flowers to find
Raphael there, could not be otherwise—
have had to sit there listening to some twat
behind a plywood podium in the chapel
in a loose doorman suit the color of snot,
stock-still except his lips and Adam’s apple,
telling them how much Jesus loves the poor
before they got their bread and piece of floor?
–From Accepting the Disaster, Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2014.
from Accepting The Disaster. Taken from the Brooklyn Poets site. Buy the book.
Look for some prose from Mehigan on Lemon Hound this fall.