but her eyes are lovely,
blue as the Word is true,
her boy well-scrubbed,
bow-tied, tongue-tied.
I watch her watching me
as she says they’ve come
to save me. From sin
(of course) and out of love.
Now, can they have a minute
of my time to prove it?
To prove what? The sin
part or the love part?
I could, I think, scare them away
by staring at her breasts.
I think they’ve come perhaps
to save themselves, me
just another trading stamp
to be redeemed when
their book is full.
But “out of love” is
what she said, and she
looks it, though she
doesn’t seem to care and anyway
is full of beautiful words
like the book she opens,
like those the boy, on cue,
her eyes are beautiful.
And anyway, who am I to judge
who’s admitted his depravity?
But even so, how could I
toss scorn over this boy’s head
and into some boy’s mother’s
strained, plain face?