Broken Bread
I can’t see the path.
My sight is twisted.
I scrabble with bare hands,
Early Morning in Northern Minnesota
The wonky old aluminum window,
austere and squealing for mercy,
would only rise a few inches.
But it was enough.
If Jesus Came to Dance
If Jesus came to dance,
what would the Buddha say?
Could we be saved by the sound of
shuffling feet?
Just
My fountain burbles,
and Klemmer’s sweet sax
sings me to sleep.
Layoffs
Ah, morning at the office.
Nothing like the fresh aroma of burnt coffee.
Nancy
We were lovers long ago,
I remember her face in the morning.
A jigsaw of fine lines,
her dayface dissolved in the pillowcase.