by Ian Bush
heíll make this bench his home,
this rain soaked rippled metal,
this ding that come from the drops.
he knows why God hasnít been answering his prayers.
God turned His back to Christ when He was suffering,
as He must have done with all those lepers.
he was a leper. Fingers falling to ash when picking public trays and sidewalks for smoked up butts.
he sits his detaching legs on the ripples,
thanks the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost for giving him a place to rot.