With crystal to push, two tweakers
wait in the church parking lot
for the NA meeting to let out. It’s Lent.
It’s sixty degrees, so sweaters have turned
a shade of pink, a spring camouflage.
Wendy’s advertises its fish sandwich.
I am a camel
that has wandered the desert
and am none the more godlike.
What else is there to go without?
Parking spaces? A few parishioners
arriving for Stations of the Cross fill what is left
of this little lot. Someone will have to walk.
Ascending from the basement, middle-aged men,
dried out like last year’s palms, light cigarettes,
turn away from the fasting sun. I drive back
to some anemic desert, or settle for a beach,
water too salty to drink. I’m too parched not to.