I saw an image of the virgin Mary

under my bed in a clump of dust bunnies.

she looked younger than when seen tucked into

the half bathtub sunk into the soil in the backyard

near the grapevine’s succulent concords, purple and plump

on the vines overhead near the fence to the junkyard.

1954 was a good year for car wrecks.

surviving chrome-plated hood ornaments of scantily clad women

winging their way forward from the hood's nub were a sacred find.

but the junkyard dog was a very cranky animal.

a good junkyard dog is always barking and growling like a lunatic.

another day and the dust bunnies under the bed changed their shape

to resemble auntie Alma, older sister to my father.

Alma, thick-legged with nylon stockings and spun-blonde

beehive hairdo, spray-fixed and perfumed like RAID crawling insect spray.

truth be told, I'd daydream of Alma and under the late night sheets 

I'd forget all about the virtues of the 14 year old "mother of God".

I know. I know. I'm going to Hell in a hand-basket.

but considering day-to-day analytics, it all lies within the perceived

value of certain elements in one's life. wouldn't you agree?