Going Down On Charlotte

This is a poem I did for a poetry class. I chose to emulate "For the Union Dead" by Robert Lowell.
The title is a little play on words I thought the feminist of the class (about 90%) would find humorous. Which they did.
I've never considered myself a poet, but this is the only one of mine I've come close to liking.

St. Anne's Catholic Church remains among
The rubble along a stretch of Charlotte Pike.
The McDonald's across the street claims its
Share of post-Mass gluttons beginning again.

I pray under these vaulted ceilings
With aching knees and knuckles clasped white,
Thinking the pain might get me to heaven;
Thinking God might notice me.

My hands relax. 
I watch the congregation file out.
Some make for the Golden Arches.
A statue of Mary weeps after them.

I notice a painter next door with a
White t-shirt emblazoned with an
American flag underscored
"In God We Trust,"
It's distorted by his bulging paunch.

The pawn shop he's painting would open soon;
Its competitor across the street defiled.
Pale green paint chips from the parched
Walls of the neighboring school.

I eye Mary's statue, meeting her pale stare as
Her open palms beckon me even as they
imprison others as if to hold on to their
Ephemeral piety: She can't live without it.

Her menacing glare turns my food to
Ash not even fourty four ounces of pure bliss
Can wash away. I'd rather starve than remain
Longer under her tearful gaze.

Still I sat transfixed; Her eyes,
Pierce my heart.
Revealing herself:
A weapon.

The End

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