Pop Poem from the Pew
The old widow in black mantilla
knelt from the black bench
near the altar and prayed the rosary.
Rumor has it she mourns
not her late husband
but the lover she had
before she married.
(Perhaps it was Rudolph Valentino.)
Her arthritic fingers, bead after bead.
Her melancholic eyes, teardrop after teardrop.
Her muttering mouth, drop after drop of blood.
When she finished her prayer,
she stood up and dropped the rosary,
shed a final fountain of tears,
drooled a gush of blood.
(The spot she left, you’d think
Jackson Pollock dropped by
and dripped his art.)
Now I don’t know her true story,
but I swear there was blood
on the church floor.
(And I heard Michael Jackson
sing his song.)