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I carry mine in the city streets
like a glass bottle of coke.
The blade all slick with grease,
jeans impressed from a pack of smokes.
Sunday morning asleep in church
dreaming of a fifteen year old virgin,
I walk the aisles in a blind search
and the doors open to a sky urchin.
I'm a slave to the audio on my horse
strapped in a black boss suit,
as I ease beyond my plotted course
deserted echoes the sound mute.
One final test is beset the stairs
italian stiletto in my grip,
trembling inside this ravaged lair
my body fails and my lids dip.