Sport 43: 2015
On the horizon the children wait for manna,
stand in dirt that gets buried in itself,
those chunks of land broken down in the mouths of tyrants
They wait in the distance between the birth of our nations,
pick the peeling paint of the last empire
concrete scraped of the coating we gave it
They wait on blocks of granite and slippery ivy,
on the roundness of moons fully formed by the sky
with no help from mountaintop prophets
On Sundays, cats mewl for the parsons
who once imported palm branches
so Jesus would know they cared.
But not anymore.
That century’s gone, replaced
by a long and delicious summer
nobody has to earn, and
the people are missing again.
The parsons stay and record
the passing of days in the sacristy log
as the years grind their hearts
into a fine liquid powder.
They retire to dusty corners,
hollow marble halls, and
and deposit themselves as well,
and then wait like the stiff plaster
frontiersmen in the settlers museum
for someone to visit and point and say
Look how brave he was, and necessary.