My Buddha wears a red dress, spiked heals
and a Chicago Cubs tramp stamp.
My Quan Yin appears both as a sparrow
and a mockingbird.
Morning’s acolytes speed away from me
wearing bright colors and the latest running shoes.
If I gave you my Get Out Of Hell Free card,
would you give me your veteran’s burial right
so I may rest eternally under the sycamore shade
of Antietam’s national cemetery?
By now the coyotes have dragged
last night’s white tail deer road kill into the wood,
so you may exit the house without witness
of that particular mechanized savagery.
Even the worst part of me loves you,
forgives you, for the oblique issues we howled last night,
each of us too lone wolf under a full moon
to hear the hunger and loneliness deep in our bodies.
The worst part of you, takes my Cubs hat
and wears it to keep your hair out of your eyes
as you work on the pickup truck’s engine
or on a walk in the rain that inspired Noah’s toil.