Spark in a Well

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An old man placed a single pamphlet in my hand
as I crossed the street;
his smile was full of pearls,
with the gates of his mouth
unlatched.
I read each line of text to myself, aloud.
"Just as a glove is made in the shape of a hand to contain
a hand, so also man is made in the shape of God
to contain God."
But I don't always see light,
cause God's sight ain't so good if he's peering
through my eyes,
and if he sees what I see he knows that good men
die far too young and leave mouths behind that are much too
small to feed themselves,
and he can't explain it.
He watches pretty girls with bright blue eyes melt in the tribal band tattooed arms
of self-obsessed, binge drinking boys with no idea who Frost or Fitzgerald are.
He sees couples more concerned with bumps and grinds in nightclubs
than palms clutched to palms in public parks.
He’s anxious on airplanes and restless in cars.
He can never find the right way to say “I’m sorry,” but his intentions are honest.
He’s learned that love is just bare knuckle boxing against Goliaths with nothing but a broken sling in your hand.
He’s an alright tipper.
He misses more people than he’s willing to let go.
He can’t read a road map well or fold it correctly the first time around.
He’s not so good at talking.
He’ll hold a door for you if you’re close and it’s raining, though he never carries an umbrella.
He’s too forgetful and too sentimental for his own good.
He slips on icy sidewalks, gets his fingers caught in car doors, trips over rugs, hits his head on tables, stubs his toe on everything, bites his tongue when he has something important to say, feels his heart break at every mention of her name, collects paper cuts when he turns the pages of borrowed books, runs into chairs because he walks without looking,
and afterwards he curses,
a lot.

If god's a part of my being like my liver and my bones,
I hope he can forgive us both.

Created: Jul 02, 2010

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