#12: A Good Cry

And now we’ve forgotten what was

Circling in like gnats over strangled fruits

Checking for warmth and breath with sweaty plastic fingers

Days with no fervor, thirsty, a dry county–odds against

All’s left are gingerbread crumbs to your maker’s front stoop

Apologies for my lack of comfort on blissful mornings

What once struck oil now chips away the crust alone

Surely there comes a time for a postlude, marking an era

But first, a quick game of charades

Candor, hors d’oeuvres, sacraments

Bells on hilltops ringing for those filing six feet apart

To meet their Jesus