Polite, intent, no fooling this time, because blasphemy Doesn't follow Him, but the other way around. How The silence of churches at bedtime can brighten a day, A soul's day. How Barbie and Ken dolls from memory Can lighten a day, even as the bad boats from upriver Go down river, since that's what they do, move at the speed We speak of with sublime direction. Don't listen too closely To the thwack of halyards, don't point in the direction Of home, when you figure out where that is. The true Voice that is calling is guttural, lifted from graffiti Off the walls or snippets of news that nip at your heels As you rip bread and bless the pigeons. Gosh, onions Or rhubarb should come to mind at a time like this, But like the rest of us non-believers you're guilty, Except for the sanctum of late night radio which winds Around you like a childhood scarf, the one that was burned Or snatched away by an older sister. Everything is happy couched in sadness, or the other way around. The smell Of pavement after summer rain means something Significant though you're not sure what. These holding Patterns we find ourselves in are guaranteed to leave us Feeling outside of our kitchen quarrel. You never get over The kitchen quarrel you weren't a part of but settled in, Like an ice house on a frozen lake. No matter. The radio Says everything melts by degrees, even you, if you care, So the ordinary life you lead is ordinary, maybe less, Maybe more if you light candles, or classy cigarettes For that matter. Maybe you would like to be Russian, Maybe the Canadian boat person on the St. Lawrence River, Maybe just the whoosh of the air as it passed through The tunnel after the rush-hour subway. You're human, you know, Like the rest of us, you're stuck with that. Own up to it.