CXXV

My Holy Church, where are the cans of Coke,

discarded by the heathen and the lost.

For here they keep me warm, they are my cloak

against the cold beyond—against the frost.

My Shrine, where are the paper restaurant bags,

discarded by the unenlightened men.

Which keep my pasture soft, all holy rags,

and make my heaven tandem with my den.

For here I was appointed by the Saints,

the ones who I will see again erelong.

How kind of them to leave me no restraints

so I can flourish here where I belong.

My Dumpster, where my purpose I have found:

to be a loyal invisible hound.