the station sinks below
like the hellfires of sin
that step out every hour
from the bathroom and the girl
(just 18) and the man wellover40
in the stylish manner that they do.
the steeple is so far out of eyesight
but the ringing is still there:
the call to Vatican reins well
as he zips up his pants
and she cleans off her mouth.
there's guilt on the floor,
there's a lit cigarette in his mouth
but nothing more from her tired
shaming lips.
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