She loudly lines neon green nails
Over the textured black of her bible,
A cross nuzzled in her cleavage
As she leans over the table
And promises to pray.
At the corner of the cafe,
The old men are rubbing watercolors over the windows.
A white-faced redhead lights a cigarette
Despite the signs,
And fumes sideways
While fondling the hairless chest
Of the man selling ammunition and bumper stickers.
The sad boy with crooked spectacles
Is tearing pages from the texts
And pasting in pictures
From fairy books and miracle plays,
Pausing every few minutes
To read texts from the pastor with the rolls.
Top off the tank, love.
It is time to scatter the charred surface of the highway
Into dust oranging the uninspired rage of the sun.
God beat us out of here years ago.