falling on fifth and 53rd

This is me, deep rolling fast down twenty
cement steps that lead up to the double oak doors
of St. Thomas Episcopal while I, the bird-ankle twist, am done for,
gob-smacked and walloped by fate, falling on the want
you say is sin –
skinning my knees on Fifth and 53rd,
I’ve no inclination to explain
the mechanics of this heart
because I’m an old broken clock. No, it’s not banal;
it’s Ptolemy and Plato,
both absolute and grey. People talk,
because WE MUST DEFINE IT
and I must be PIGEONHOLED
because I don’t fit neatly your social register.
You’d love to label me your hack
if if if
You’re so sticky and Catholic and catholic –
the absolute oaths; it’s all about some vow
before an oxymoron,
not a real and true promise made in the moment.
Oh baby, let me tell you, a promise and a secret
mean a whole lot more but lacks your God-slap
approval,
as if our love, our integrity, could ever be
more than a word.