I love the farmer’s son who,
at my invitation to come
for the children’s sermon,
slip-slides off the last hard-backed pew,
cowboy boots slamming
one, two
on the cracked wooden floor panels.
I love to sit there
in the carpeted chancel,
patiently in my black robe,
as he suddenly full-body flops
in the aisle, giggling;
for Dad’s ready to scoop up
his loose-limbed human spaghetti
and tickle with calloused tender hands.
And I love the verb of them,
both in boots,
one, two
smiles creasing their faces.
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great poem, Andrew! Thanks for sending it our way.
Hey! Thanks, Susan. Great hear from you. All my best to you.