To go,
rusty toolbox of guile,
home,
I will need motivation
to match my frustration.
A spiritual inspiration.
A divine intervention.
A moment alone,
with my thoughts,
my pounding heart,
my darting eyes,
my heavy breathing.
An escape from
the chains of wit,
from the shackles
of clever,
a perfect cylinder,
an orange on a tabletop,
a flower in a blue vase,
a dog-eared photograph
cast against the whitest table.
An image to contemplate,
to transcend.
The pew creaks under my weight
and my kneeler shifts
restlessly. My forehead is still
damp from the holy water.
Stained glass is always blue;
blue must be God’s color.
It is beautiful today, nothing more.
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