closing my survey of Priest MezzaTesta

-when god looks like the guy on the ceiling-

1.
when I’m no longer engaged

either remembered

or not remembered

but dead nonetheless;

when recollections end,

when storytelling ends

and my early friends die as I die..

2.
Priest! MezzaTesta!— the chosen wait
in the sacristy
by way of the ballpark

(as was your preference) who,
beforehand washed

the sweat of the game from its balls

in your honor

for the honor of your company
through the narrow archway behind
the purple curtain —

looked like a form of,

some sort of

heavy, felt-like material, hung
where time-saving stores in pre-

blessed holy water was shelved,
(it's a natural thing) —  the sour
scent of nicotine wafting

from under the yellow-stained fingernails and

wait a minute.

I’ve got me a poem around here somewhere... basta!