The Prayer Machine

A woman in the street; her plight
catches my eye; loaded with bags
just still more stuff to bolster
already chokka closets; bulging
with blouses by Bulgari, sandals
by Steiger, and frocks from France.

Drawers spilling over; watches
by Cartier, and Oyster Rolexes –
diamond necklaces – string upon
string of finest cultured pearls
and shot-silk chiffon scarves
enough to die for.

Odd then she should make a bee-line
for my shop, called simply ‘Soul Scrolls’,
as I watch her cross the street. Hand
to chest – that pain again, and she can’t
recall where the hell she’d parked...
and even so, where were her keys?

My door, wide open, as it usually is
so the bell makes her jump. Hand
to heart, says, “You sell prayers, I believe;
recommended by a friend, do you see?”

How many does she want, I ask, and,
top whack, how much would madam pay?
I’d do her a deal on a dozen; for her
a ‘special price’.

She asks to see my famous prayer machine,
and I say she could – except two blocks down ,
outside Macy’s, her meter just expired...
and, academic as it was, her keys
were in the pocket of her coat,
with pills she never took.