Last Days in Salt Lake City

Dwarfed by a building that would have delighted Mussolini,

A blonde shape hardens in the bright mist.

It's the Angel Moroni, resplendent in gold drag,

Calling the faithful to shop at the Company Store.

Faces heavy as concrete, catatonic faces,

The lost tribe, getting more and more lost.

The radio says make Jesus your business partner

At 10% and the Christ can suck hind titty.

I came here to muse on a bone in the Jewish graveyard,

And the banks locked arms with their cousins the mausoleums.

And the last malcontent poet to pass this way

Was detained in front of the wall of a firing squad.

Did you hear that, feet?  I won't think less of you

If you leap to a hasty conclusion and split for the coast.

Robert Mezey

From Collected Poems: 1952-1999, University of Arkansas
Press, © 2000.  Reprinted by permission of the author.