Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
There are Crumbs all Over Your Shirt
For a friend who must remain anonymous
A man in silences sniffs the air and notes
That wolves are lurking in the nearby copse
And his wife says:
“There are crumbs all over your shirt.”
A man in grief meditates a tragedy
And weigh its pain between scripture and prayer
And his wife says:
“There are crumbs all over your shirt.”
A man observes a burning house; alarmed,
He rushes in to save an endangered child
And his wife says:
“There are crumbs all over your shirt.”
A man has trouble opening the door:
“Dear Wife, there is a corpse upon the mat.”
And his wife replies:
“There are crumbs all over your shirt.”
The missiles fall, the skies and moon turn red
The tides run high, are littered with the dead
The air is poisoned (which is always odd)
A man says “We must give our lives to God.”
And his wife replies:
“There are crumbs all over your shirt.
And wipe your feet; I just mopped the
floor.”
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment