chandler collins: WaHo

In certain half-deserted lots
A yellow beacon shines
Calling near-drunkards
Yearning for rest
Filling their gaping maws
With oiled substitutes
Smothered covered and capped

Birds with broken wings
Roost on the pews
Of the greasy altar

Beached fish
Seek the lighthouse
Tossed and battered onto the rocks

“Bring me your tired huddled masses”
She beckons
And they come to her syrupy call