I see the dust of the road

I see the dust of the road

through the pain

the blood in my eyes

my blood, everything hurts

as the man with scrolls

walks by, as the priest

looks away and walks by

I taste the dust of the road

as the sun beats down

I swallow the dust of the road.

Photograph by Lilla Frerichs via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.

The man in the pew

The man in the pew

in front of me has

a twisted collar, and

he’s unaware of it,

surely, or he would

fix it, surely, or if he

does know, then, surely,

there must be a point

to it, since no one

deliberately twists

a shot collar, surely,

do they? I barely resist

the temptation to straighten

it, and I resist the temptation

to lean forward and tell him

his collar was twisted. Wasn’t

the sermon on the Good Samaritan?

Photograph by Junior Libby via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.