Good intentions

left unspoken,

stale before they’re tasted—

What’s the use of all this virtue?

Your eyes are glazing over for well wishes 

unfelt, unmeant,

scentless. 

No one stays for coffee as the March draft whines

through the cathedral of our thoughts. 

Let the cups tip and ring.

Let the altarcloth snap.

Let the walls sparkle blood.

Nothing can profane an empty temple.