Dark maws open too soon – but who can tell time? A bandit escaped
just when he was
cleaning up
straightening up
sobering up.
No easy roads along this route: pitfalls and potholes, all miniature
stumblings toward a deeper descent.
Faithlessness wafts from bottles shattered open on tile
floors --
what god will answer these echoes?
No astrology, no rising planet in the first house, neither
second nor third,
all is shaded.
Salvaged memories of
lives – over praised,
over privileged,
over wrought.
Charted salvations were drawn but no one reads. Heat rises to the attic wilting
boxed images next to stored Callaways; two stories lower
chicken salad putrefies.
Perfection had frolicked across Sunday links and
midweek lunches. Nothing remains but
god’s favor to others – you know, he stole your putter
on the way out. 
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