My Cause Is Noble and Just
Joan of Arc
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Makes game of chores
Sits in cold piss with sticky hands
Watching morning crawl the wall in blue
Guesses a message tickle written on his back
Protests a Zita says or said
Or Natalie or something
Oh, if these cold feet could
Oh, if these cold feet could only
The warble and coo of an unseen pigeon
Snow creaks and salt streaks tinkle
Either kneelus or I'll kneel
Who can't say how anymore
That how can't say why
It's beginning to get to be
A bit too late to name this