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.

Left Out America

Blame it on birth, the last born gets leftovers,

the hand-me-downs that continue into adulthood,

always the poor relation watching discarded TVs

and driving worn through cars. Only the food is new—

who eats gently used food? Not that you haven’t

tried to find a way, gullible to the lies from teachers

and, in Fourth Commandment* awkwardness, other authorities,

as if right guides to find a life better left behind.

Their dreams aren’t yours, but the courage that heals,

promised by Jesus, lies far away. Cast them off your back

like a harness too heavy before you’re left to bear the guilt

while muttering the hymn, “Heaven is My Home,” the solace

of the put-upon because without it you’d collapse

like Job, bearing on your lips the curse of being born.

*From the Small Catechism of Martin Luther:

"The Fourth Commandment: Honor your father and mother. What does this mean? We should fear and love God so that we do not despise or anger our parents and other authorities, but honor them, serve and obey them, love and cherish them."