Lacking Heaven

It’s as good as any—small change excuse

to waddle through the white

noise of crickets and cicadas capture

morning ears that fail to blot

out the city noise of garbage

trucks that beep and distant broken mufflers

that join Clinton Street commuters a half—

mile away. No escape. Not even the pitiful

cry of the lonely hawk can erase

wanting another place, some other place

that got pinned to a distant map

like the heaven Jesus promises; too bad

he gives rooms in a mansion.

You wanted a cottage by the lake, made quiet

by the still waters. Put up with the angels,

eternity’s choices are few.