Santa Maria

Dear Mr. Pope 

I’m not a Catholic and I never have been 

All the Spaniards are chanting that you’re from New York 

When really you’re from Chicago

But I forgive it because I realize I’ve been replying 

“Cash” when asked by cashiers if I want a bag 

 

Dear Mr. Pope 

I’m not a Catholic and I never have been 

But I was nearly brought to tears 

When fireworks went off from the turret of the church you were in 

My friend wasn’t Catholic but they buried him in a Catholic funeral 

And it makes me want to cry often and frequently

I visited a Catholic cemetery and couldn’t hold it in 

Couldn’t get past the first set of glass cases 

Where I guess you guys keep the bones or ashes 

But when I went to a gay bar called the Santa Maria 

I kept thinking of my friend and how, oh, how much 

He’d love this

Dear Mr. Pope 

I’m not a Catholic and I never have been 

I had this thing for a few years where my tears tasted like freshwater 

But when I cry in Poblenou they really do taste 

Like salt