Ironman Sunday

I like the moment
In the sanctuary
When it is first
Quietimg_3031

When I am the last one
there

I run my hand along
the tops of the edge of the pews

I swear the marks look like
Masking tape was peeled off,
having once lined each one.

I scour the rows, humming to myself;
The hymnals lining them are blue–
Only mine is bound in red.

I could shout a lament or idolatrously
Shout my own name

But I only listen to the buzzing echo
of my humming:

A small stitch in the silence.

The stitch of red in the
dusk’s blue backdrop
catches my eye
while I grill pizzas
outside
as the day nears its end.

I hum a joke from an HBO
comedy to myself

and I hear the voice of an announcer
echoing from downtown

Telling the world
who has finished this weekend’s
race.

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2 thoughts on “Ironman Sunday

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