someone's christ
john sweet
somewhere in new york
driving west
over the bodies of too many
dying children
someone's christ
nailed to a cross
in the median strip
and flies crawl across
his dead skin
crows have pecked
his eyes out
you ask me to stop
so you can take pictures
and maybe cut off a finger
for a souvenir
something to bronze
for a good lick charm
or a coffee table
ornament
something to remember
this day by