He shit the bed again.
She gently wipes his legs, back.
Scrubs sheets, changes clothes.
A tap at the door.
“Sorry, am I interrupting?”
“No Reverend, please come in.”
The Book on the chair. Hands folded.
“Son, get the hell outta here
with that shit.”
Later. A knock.
“Hi Reverend.”
“I’m terribly sorry for your loss.
Shall we make arrangements?”
“And…” Stammering, eyes averted.
“Yes Reverend?”
“Well, I’m grieved to say
he showed no signs of repentance.”
“I know. The old bugger…
But son, are my tired hands
really kinder than God’s?”
[…] which poisons everything else. I’ve broached the subject before in various ways: humorous, poetic, or otherwise. And now for any who might find this valuable, I’ll try an analytic […]