shelters, there are not;
and my age-group didn't build them,
yet proudly stuff their shirt with
the idea that they are built.
each night they groom themselves.
mutual flea-picking.

alibis, psychobabble, everything
green is everthing causing me to welcome
death and i wondered why my Papaw Morgan
welcomed death? his was two world-changing wars.
hard-scrabble life; blood-from-turnips;
ant hills' dotted brown scrub brush,
eastTexas dirt

i have hope for my life, yet doubt Jesus
will fish us out of the torn and hellish
Earth we've stewarded off course. Jesus
gets tired too; tired of our carelessness.
after all, he is half-human, only half-God.
His Father will understand as only He can.

06/21/2011

Posted on 06/21/2011
Copyright © 2026 Charlie Morgan