A Holy Man or Two

My arms were sticks of incense.
Bullies with magnifying glasses
Were always chasing me.
There I’d be scenting the playground.
Around Christmas I’d be popular with the priests.
They conscripted me to wave goodbye at mass.
I felt holy and needed, although I never wore robes.
All of the mosquitoes on those humid summer nights,
With sparklers as the yard’s stars, never needled me.
Every year my arms got shorter as more and more
Of me became ash and smoke.
Every idea had a hint of sadness,
Every embrace almost painful.
Never a dark room, never a closed window,
Never a bath that really cleansed.
I worked on the ground crew that helped the antichrist
Travel around on his speaking tour.
He was just a nice guy who wanted things perfect.
Once I hailed him a cab in New York City.
It was on a questionable street at an unseemly hour.
Somebody’s in love with you, he predicted
As he bent down to light his cigarette from my cherry.
No they’re not, I yelled when he was out of sight.