DIRTY FACTORIES

I kissed my first girl,
by the dirty, factory wall.
Then I wept,
and went to Confession,
on a Saturday.
So I could be clean,
before God's eyes,
on Holy Sunday.
Then I sinned again,
and wore out my knees,
in prayerful submission...
to statues,
and black-frocked hypocricy.
Did God listen?
I kissed my next girl,
in an American car...
A "Holy Beauty", made of steel,
and soft bench seats.
I lay her down,
and enjoyed my first Epiphany.
The priesthood, disintegrated...
before my very eyes.
And so did my Sainthood...
because of heat,
and passion,
and steamed windows,
in front of dirty factories,
where urban dwellers worked,
and prayed,
for better lives...
prayers which fell,
on God's deaf ears,
as Tuxedoed men,
and Society women,
drank cocktails,
on State Street,
that Great Street.
They laughed, and loved,
and felt no guilt...
having not a care in the world.
But, I continued to pray,
in tattered jeans,
and holes in my shoes,
in decrepit churches,
near dirty factories,
where I discovered joy,
and the carnal gifts,
of working class girls.
I built more guilt,
and more submission,
to the filthy rich,
who bore no guilt,
as they broke my back,
and my spirit,
in their dirty factories...
as I finally queried...
Where are you, God?
But no answer came back to me.
Only misery.