I've failed, I've failed, blah blah blah. I can flagellate myself over my absence, or I can acknowledge it and move on.
Moving on...this is draft 1.5. Draft 1 was written in the past 10 minutes or so.
On the side of St. Matthew's where there is no stained glass,
only a shortcut for a lunchtime fix, of one kind or another,
I see the man in plaid flannel who asks me,
twice, for change.
He is a piece of creation, no more or less than
that weed, unrooted, clenched on the alley brick,
but I deny my money for fear of opening my purse.
I say "Sorry" and make my face say the same,
after a quick rehearsal in my mind. I am sorry.
I do not say "God bless you."
This is on me. Why make him hate God?
I mull over going back, after reaching safety
like a child at tag at his temporary home. I do not
go back this time. This willfulness is grace,
however ungraceful/ That I can walk, and speak,
and sit at my Dell fixing grammar for dollars
or typing this poem on the clock.
Maybe I should rejoice this grace. I do not care to.