I'm tired of seeing you boxed up 

in cardboard and army fatigue, threadbare in 20 degrees. 

And I'll be walking around you so lightly, 

hoping that you won't disturb me 

from making my retreat, from making my retreat. 



A long time ago, we paved our cities over bones. 

We made cadavers into roads, 

and when we gave prayers, we gave them as donations 

and lingered with impatience 

as the casket was shut on your fingers. 



You lost your face in the elements 

but God, I'm no sociologist 

with the ways and the means to recover this. 

But I'll stick my hands in the court of injustice 

with five bucks for some AIDS orphans I've never met 

or for median-vendor veterans. 



So will you give me what I came here for? 

Forgiveness, nothing more