The echo of wine is sadness, jokes told are
not funny and laughter is a bronchial cough.
Mirth gone when Sunday is despondent,
an autumnal leaf that drags itself along
a clammy asphalt road.
Wrinkled faces framed by nylon shawls,
hesitate by church steps as wanting to hear
more words of everlasting love;
before going home to empty rooms and
dripping kitchen taps.
October drizzle on Sunday´s best, bat wings
open up and the murmur of the futureless
is a dying repeat; as the padre smokes
a cigar in the vestry, wine has lost its glow.
