New

Proud new cities,
Onion domes like teats or chandeliers,
The din of soft pornography in the street names,
The musk of helpless cathedral bells.

I might mistake her forehead smudge,
And think her hubby struck her,
On ash Wednesday of all days.
Maybe a closet superstition-ist,
With a penchant for the theatrical,
Leaving me in a sharp new polo,
And an avoiding glance.

And the catholics gather for fish fillet,
And talk a storm about the terrorists,
And the baptists in tow,
They balk about the homos...
And the shy socialists take notes.