We are all sinners, craving a forgiveness
we know we don’t deserve.
We are all exiles, forever expelled
from our homeland—it was only ever a dream.
We are all vagrants on the hot, dusty road,
telling lies to the border guards.
We are God’s children,
orphans in bloody rags.
I started to write a long response about the two Baptist fellows who talked to me through the front door screen for 45 minutes yesterday. But my comment really detracted from your poem, which is gorgeous…
And I’m doing so again.
Sorry. I’m off the rails.
go off the rails whenever you like. there’s much to be discovered among the cinders and the trackbed.
thank you for the kind words about my poem. i don’t think i’m any great shakes as a poet. chicago seems to be drawing words out of me, through my hand and pen and onto paper, which is a way of working the words i haven’t much used in years.