Ironic Song of Praise

by on July 11, 2017 :: 0 comments

This is a reaching out,
an admission that you and I

are just the trial size
of some divine product.

We concede the advantage
to that which nests

in our thighs.
We exhale an ironic song

of praise to briefly enhance
that which irons

its pants on the sidewalk’s
less-than-ideal surface.

For the sake of hanging gardens
and the shadows they cast

after 4:00 p.m.,
for the sake of birds that seem

plentiful, even redundant,
sometimes a nuisance but never

a threat, for the sake of corn
and Christ and pity,

we must keep our zippers well oiled
but stuck in the up position.

– Glen Armstrong

editors note:

Oh, to ache for the sake… – mh clay

Leave a Reply