The Devil Went Down to the LGBTQ+ Homeless Center - Stephen Piazza

I didn't have a lot on me,

Just the skin on my back, missing the wings,

and still a little sticky and purple I slept on that cot for 40 days and 40 nights,

Living off donated Folger’s and rancid cups of cream.

There were more to follow, who asked me to edit their empty CV’s, and over contraband alc would ask me

to cry with them over missing the light.

But I know what I'd chosen.

I'd made my house on a floor of sand and the walls came down around me.

I look a little different than I used to,

I don't miss the angel face.

I move heavy, dark, and dusky,

the ocean’s mirror of the morning star.

When Adam’s kids see me on the street, they don't know what tricked ‘em.

Once a week or once three months or every two thousand years Mike calls me on the phone,

Says, “Hey man, we're really missing you,”

And it's like a TV play when he adds,

“But you’re done with that fag shit?”

My rehearsed reply:

No thanks, I'm good where I'm at, and cut the line.

Yeah, sure, I'm good, but I haven't seen the sky in a while,

And it gets pretty cold down here.