Excuses

The present product
of past,  and if you believe
that,  the future,  too

Saint Jude

Up before the alarm

again, throat dry,

head full of nails

each tagged with

a recipient soul,

keeping it together.

You've never noticed

the pensive man

eyes on the back

of your head as

you window shopped,

cried on a city bus

or tried to pay bills,

chin in soft hand,

the other rummaging a

deep pocket for grains

of hope, fuzzballs,

reasons to go on.

The positive error in

your checking account,

your daughter's smile

and numerous little

micro pleasures,

often discovered

after you've clambered 

off at your stop and

I've rode onwards.