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Explaining My Premature Death To God, Maturely
I had gone to this spot to pray
on a mid-afternoon street in the city
so busy the cars rarely make time to drive
as they sit for hours and hours on end
where I got the vague sense of familiarity
commonly experienced cloud-watching
when you see a single cloud, all alone,
way way up in the endless sky you just know
is about to change forms from a beach-ball
to an elephant then into an elephant balancing
a beach-ball at the tip of its trunk
before the sun swallows the whole dang circus whole
right before a thunderstorm rolls in
to remind you that without a dang umbrella
- of potential spots you could have come to -
this particular spot is good a pick as any;
so I sat down on the spot and crossed my legs
like a proud Native American
(or disgusting American hippie, depending)
pulling a squished ham sandwich bleeding
mayo and mustard into its proper plastic body bag
from my back-hip pocket and in one bite
swallowed the whole dang thing whole just in time
for the 2:30pm metro bus to repay the favor
to my forehead, which does feel better, thanks, God,
but you’re an a-hole for even asking.
5/28
Copyright ©
Phillip Garcia
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