The Pope mobile resolves into the distance
He is waving to the crowd.
Confession time is here
As are the demands for miracles
On the conveyor belts of time
and it's remains.
Forever moments
in stop delay
a postcard
set aflame.
Today's yells
behind the shelves
of a fabricated job.
We catch the news
between the elbow room
and sip our beers when we can.
The eggs get dropped
our friends get popped
returning home again
and placed six feet under.
It is quiet
and still this
ghost of a town
where we once knew
is a shoe
and a pipe
a fragment
diddle.
©-Sonja J Phinney 1998
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