The Poetic Impulse

If the napkins are the Opera House
then the salt shaker's the fat lady;
if a pope's hat, a well fed cardinal.
But if the napkins are themselves
(each without a self) then
the salt shaker's an excuse
to spill this horrible wine
on our ridiculous host.

Catholic Tastes

I've always enjoyed the ripe canvases of Bruschetta,
his way with red.
In Mary Asserts Her Virginity
the Pope is unassailably crimson
while she, big with labor,
her mouth a void,
emerges from shadow
in the subtlest of rose glows.
One wonders from where the pigment comes.
It looks like the lipstick of a former girlfriend
who coincidentally was named Eva.
She applied it hungrily,eager to eat the world.