In a gas station with a faded sign on the other side of
Burned Pine Avenue, across the street from
Our Father’s, Will Parish,
I shambled into the restroom where my legs collapsed.
My kneecaps cracked on the browned tiles,
Forehead nestled in narrow trenches,
Clear streams digging estuaries into the murk
Beneath the lightning of a flickering bulb.
I studied the scriptures scratched on the stall:
The Epistles of Kilroy, the Little Black Book of Numbers,
I bowed before the throne once more,
Confessed in holy catharsis.
Bells from the parish sidestepped the station.
Izzy placed his hand on my back,
Pulled me to my feet and smiled
As the flock left for their townhomes.