Cigarettes and Jesus

Most Godly of all women, she sits smoking

Virginia Slims, in an armchair.

Living the socialist dream,

her everyday, a utopian society.

She gives, waiting for the next world,

the true utopia like silence perched

on a wall in the center of a protest.

That’s what the old book teaches.

Old pearls dangling next to her heart.

Her class, given away like frankincense

and myrrh—presented to the baby king.

She may very well be the king herself,

smoking Virginia Slims.

Like a blade ripped from democracy’s

grass, she sits alone, sipping whiskey—

in a game of solitaire, she plays

the Queen of Hearts at the bottom

of the pile, a hierarchy of wealth—

feudalism on an old woman’s table.

She distributed her wealth, a pot of silver,

combined it with the democratic melting pot.

A client of Tom Walker, she leaves

herself dry as a sponge.

She knows the green poison

of men’s souls.

Jesus in an armchair, she’s willing to pay

for the faults of humanity—willing to pay

despite the selling of meat on the streets.

That’s what the old book teaches.

A true Christian, sitting,

smoking Virginia Slims.

Happiness spawned from misery,

like Dionysus from Zeus,

she is the Giving Tree,

an old stump read to children—

dry, like a sponge.

Give to those in need, the old book says.

A sagging tattoo, smoking Virginia Slims,

staring at capitalist candidates on a flat screen,

she continues to give,

in an armchair,

for the Bible tells her so.