Dear Reader,

This morning the world tried its best to tuck me back in.
I’ve been writing from the demilitarized zone

Of my chest and the weather is almost always clouds.
Who can recall the sun with all this posturing?

I heard a woman say, “We ought to live more real life.”

The next morning I climbed a stool in my kitchen
And cried for a little more normal.

I prayed for the lightbulbs I’ve yet to screw in,
The weeds congregating the slabs up the walkway.

There’s a prayer for every sadness because God
Is more a Zamboni than a fine-tooth comb.

Think of prayer as a tremendous pressure kettle whose
Whistling reaches a fever pitch in times of grief.

Think of man as a macaroni portrait made to look like God.
What I’m saying is, there’s an art to living.

I heard a woman say, “She never stopped doing the things
that make her feel satisfied.”

May I come in and join you in front of the tv?
I’ve got so much catching up to do.

How about the dinner table?
I once dined with a pastor who loved exotic spices.

After we prayed, he’d sprinkle atomic sauce
On his pepperoni slices, while

I praised the Scotch Bonnets
On my family’s deserted table.

It’s true.
My mother will always be driving home from work.

The meek shall inherit a deeply flawed ball of yarn,
This isn’t a parable.

I heard a man say, “We’re at a place in history where we know better.”
I said, “I know, I know, I know.”