Still-Life with Bookshelf

One more last-call load: that fat stack of battered paperbacks
Half-packed in bootleg boxes, leftover cardboard,
Makeshift hymnals reinforced with duct-taped crosses

Rest in peace near tomes of cinderblock dust, belief
Cast in sad flood-warped rows like gravestone drunks
Who wait for hours, stray dogs, loose gravel parking lots,

Shot down by blue laws at bible-strict liquor stores
Where time-locked cooler doors help shut-up shop
For those almost secular spirits, clear glass bottles…

Top-shelf scripture sits just yards from our front porch,
But in this slumlord life of free-verse dumps
There is no line break, pink-slip caesura for work…

Rented curbside moving truck, change of address form
Stamped, sent, filed with its proper post-office
So blind faith, love can pass-out, fuck neighborhood watch,

What used to be ours pours: hell-bent light, lukewarm beer,
Crushed rocks, till before becomes forever after,
Sublet words sprawl across, scar our next starlit hardwood floor.