Friday Poem


“Who hasn’t been loved?” the priest shouted rhetorically
His sermon, full stop.

No one answered, of course.
No one was rapt.

But the young boy in the third pew,
his hair looking damp and prematurely spiked,
dropped his mother’s keys, right at that moment,
the ones that kept him busy.

And they fell straight into the silence,
falling freely as if forever,
past the silent archipelago of grace and remorse
surrounding us all.

Her yellow and white designer beads,
looped once through the gold fingers that opened doors,
her cherished key ring ornaments–

“Thwack!”  when they hit the polished wood,
shattering the measured pause.

Everyone transfixed by the echoes.


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