By: JD DeHart
A well-dressed man with
manicured life and teeth tells me
that he’d glad wrestle with an
angel, tangle with heaven in the grass
below a celestial ladder,
even if it entailed a displaced hip.
If only it meant he might stop
tangling with the devil himself,
scarlet being of wagging finger,
constantly suggesting: Why don’t
you have another? Take a peek.
There’s something better waiting
around the inevitable corner.
Or worse yet: Move a little further
toward the precipice. See now?
You aren’t good enough, are you?
Born of a small town, you are a tiny
voice waiting to be gathered up.