wanted to be a deliberate
man.
On days when the boil in my
blood near overflows
I imagine what the sensation
must feel like.
These ill-humors do no one
any good.
Do I blame the rain? Should
I pray for the sun?
Would Heaven part for the
prayers
of yet another more sinner?
Ghosts of a stern religious
past
cast my lot in with theirs –
resigned, at last, to darkness.
At least there is no rain.
I think of my father.
I hope for the sun.
The floor is dirty
and dishes to be done
and obligations to fulfill
between now and moonrise
when all our dead fathers
rattle their chains
and bade us revenge
this murder most foul.