“I’ll pray for you.”

Clogged ears drown in her deluge as mind hides
in tranquil slumber in the wooden ark.
Half-shut eyes stray toward faces passing by,
fathoms away from hers, too wet and dark.

Her monologue ends; she stares, longs for words
to soothe spiritual wounds I didn’t hear.
I scavenge sermons for slogans I’ve heard
to ease her pain (or, at least, save my ears).

Four simple words declaimed with theatrics
rehearsed at work, waiting on drunken jerks,
coaxing from their wallets handsomer tips.
Four words of charity (without the work).

She rises with a finger, turns and leaves;
at least my brethren will be proud of me.

Critique

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