The Carpenter and the Moon

The Carpenter wastes there in the cool night,
hands that held many nails now held by nails.
His ears ring. You can tell by the moon
that it's almost Easter. A thief has died.
"For God so loved the world, that He sacrificed His only begotten Son..."
In other words, when you love somebody, kill it something
special. The moon observes this Child abuse
upon which a world is built and thinks,
"This reminds me of that thing with Abraham,
only this is much worse."
The Carpenter has descended to collect the good people of hell.
His mother weeps. The moon remarks,
"A good father marries your mother."
A toolbox is auctioned:
because when a carpenter dies, the world has an extra one.
The moon becomes jealous, remembering
when she was worshipped, not some Senseless Act.
She wanes to nothing, but she doesn't
blame the diet industry or glossy waifs from Mirabella—
she is just turning in her black bed
regular as a drum beat.
Apollo defines her fairly
yet she is saddled with lunacy, menstruation, and Monday.
Yes, she too is useless,
but there is a difference between gratuitous cruelty and gratuitous beauty.
Her aluminum glow adorns like a rosary
but warms no one.
She hasn't washed anyone's feet lately,
and she's done nothing for the people of hell,
who are: gamblers, fools, and dreamers,
suicides, different drummers, and wasted drummers
like Karen Carpenter and Keith Moon.