The Tenderloin

The rich kids cross these streets of open palms
(when daylight’s out, they sometimes wander through),
and cast out nervous glances like they’re alms,
content with all the good they mean to do.

The church doors call to men with neon letters —
the Sacred Heart of Naked Flesh Madonnas
beckons me in to wash my sins with hers,
where dollar-bill indulgences absolve us.

Cathedral walls surround the cardboard aisles,
the lambs of God asleep in nylon tents,
its pews for mass and worship lined with piles
of fragrant myrrh and earthy frankincense.

As palmers come on bended knee to pray,
the fog rolls in and carries Christ away.