We, none of us, have money
for this. We put up the cross, but
the garage door is still broken.

The cross leans back like a goal
post about to be torn
asunder by the underdogs who
have won the game at last.

We may not be winning
the game at last, but we know
how to tear shit down
even and especially if
it’s our own.

The city tree that was already
dead in October from heat and
disease and not Mother Nature’s
glorious turning—we
put three black sparkly
ornaments on it for Halloween.

Child thieves stole two of them
that night—probably the only real
treat in their lifeless bags.

They Left one out of guilt or
respect.

Out of guilt or
respect,

we left that one there
for Jesus.

-M.
66 Day Poetry Habit: Day 1