Sign of Offense

 

Thin lines of paint or tar or feces form the black cross

in the white P of the Bon au Pain cafe sign:

The crowds from the subway cars don't see it;

for memory is an infinite series of entries

in a schedule book that’s always too full.

 

Profane Eucharist, stamp of faith, those who follow

the crucified con etched it there when they faced  the circus

of capital, looked into the eyes of the wolves of commerce.

The apocalyptic stench in the air

taunts uneasy fingers strumming money's guitar.

 

The sign of offense traces God's silence in the tunnels

and splits the walls in sorrow like an abscess of the spirit.