Blind as a starfish, Father Divine sends me
a letter with a well-worn weathered check.
My submission is rejected because he can’t tell
if I’m a robot or a cyclops. A Blue Heron stands
on one leg and wonders why?
When my wife calls my first name my wings unfurl,
and stalactites fall to the howl of a spun brass bowl.
Good Burpee seeds gets planted, but I still can’t fly,
stuck in an ebb tide.
All who have gone before me fly across the night sky
laughing at the cosmic joke I can’t get until the tides roll in.
I beat the drums slowly to no avail.