Many are the gods
Who guide the prostitute’s feet
As she walks the cobblestones of sex:
The god of the bachelor
Made impotent by shyness
The god of the married man
Tired of his regular side of the bed
The god of the pimp
Who hopes in other men’s desires
The god of the policeman
Whose vice is hidden under
The seat of the patrol car
The god of the magistrate
Who wields our common virtue
In his six-inch gavel
The catholic god of the priest
Lashing out with his olive branch of damnation
The god of the housewife
Whose husband neither talks in his sleep
Nor feels an after-effect.
And you, the innocent
Cast your stone of prayer thus:
Let not an honest policeman
Be a black cat in her path
Let not the gold-sucking pimp
Scar her beyond plastic surgery
Let technology brace her bedposts
With the coldness of steel
And strengthen her mattress
With the suppleness of liquid muscles.
And this from me:
Lord, keep the moist heart
Always warm between her legs
Let her reap more than mere bubbles
From the froths of her shallow pool
Where men go to drown.
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