[Another Postlude?]

When a poem leaves church it can

finally take off its bra and scratch audibly

and flip through the

channels for an afternoon without batting

or pitching or walking out to the mound, it can lick

its fingers a thousand times or

just wait until the bag is empty, it really

doesn't matter either way.  It farts without

expecting to hear God's voice.  What a relief to

know nothing and share it with the couch

cushions, the neighbor it sees across the street

working in his driveway in coveralls.  It might wait

to take a shower until later, it wants yoga without mirrors and hot

sauce and is pleased

there are three to choose from if

you can find them in the

sanctuary so cool, quiet, so full of good things.

It needs no directions, it forgets

what it was doing next but then

after a while thinks it might be nice

to pause and light a candle.