I drop to my knees
on the impulse of prayer,
fold my fingers inward
to construct the little church,
pop up my pointers
to erect the steeple.
I open my hands
and look at the people
my fingers represent.
One has a sliver
embedded near a blister.
Other than this
they all look the same,
stained by the clods
I broke up for worms.
I wiggle them, stupidly.
Then I unclasp my hands
and set them free.
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Kicking Home the Bait Can — 1 Comment
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I fing, therefore I am.