Kicking Home the Bait Can

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.

About Charles Hansmann

I am what you might call a non-observant atheist. I have published poetry and prose in magazines and anthologies in the U.S., England, Ireland, Austria, New Zealand and Australia. I hold degrees in English, philosophy and law. Nature, people and poetry pretty much satisfy my needs.


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