YMCA Bunkroom

YMCA Bunkroom

A bearded priest from the dregs of society
Whose cologne masks his pungency
Preaches to the huddled hobos
Of fragrant worlds in the Andes
Where the bathless streets find their antidote
In spring-fed pools for fresh starts
For road trodden pilgrims with worn shoes
There the Quinoa turns purple with spring
With more maize than people
And avocados ripe as a maiden’s breasts
Are just as ready to be squeezed
But with the virtue of being edible
Ye who listen to the ranting of this old man
Take them with a grain of his salty lithium
But these disciples nod from his lullaby sermon
While the grey-haired apostle witnesses
to grab them by their scruffy hair
And drag them like children
Through the supermarket
Of America’s salad days