If Purgatory Sold Tacos
Desert coils around the city
like a viper crushing the life out of its pray.
Nowhere to go.
Nowhere to escape.
It’s better to accept what time remains
than fight to the bitter end.
I’m lost in this world.
A city of my own choosing.
Alone.
Afraid.
I sleep when I cry myself to it.
But not enough tears to keep me in slumber.
The people I know here are addicts and adulterers.
Friends of Jesus.
But I am no messiah.
The viper squeezes tighter.
I stopped fighting long ago.
I want to leave.
I need to get out.
But in purgatory there’s nothing to do but wait.
The addict is happy.
The adulterer is too.
I must have done something truly evil
to be left in the state that I’m in.
Depression follows me wherever I go.
Sometimes I can outrun it.
Other times I become its shadow
and trail wherever it goes.
I like to walk at night.
There are no shadows in darkness.
Except under the lights
of the corner Mexican food cart.
Ordering taco carne asada,
for the briefest of moments
I forget about the stalking depression.
I forget about my state of mind.
I forget about the viper.
At least they sell tacos in purgatory.
