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Prayers
November 16, 2012
On burnt
umber evenings
we rock
in half-broken chairs
sipping watered down
lemonade looking
out at a sky made up
of the blanket
that covers our dead
whose bones pile
under pillows
and next to toy shovels
in the backyard,
whose fears
sit on our porch
crossed legs
propped up against
the glass pitcher,
who we look over at
from behind
mirrored palms
as we say
our morning prayers,
"Heavenly Father,
please watch
over me."
We ought to pray
to the dead
only we're too
busy looking up.
© Michael C., Tully, NY
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