I fell asleep in church
with sweet butterscotch
under my tongue,
head resting
on Jesus.
The preacher, a hyperopic
guy wearing spectacles
to read, speaks
toward the future.
My wife never fails
to remind as we leave,
a black car burns
hotter than hell
when it sits in the sun.
Our waitress knows
kindness
yields better tips.
A glutinous fly
commits hari kari
on the edge of my knife.
I think of a wee little man
in a sycamore tree, how
when he looks down
he sees what
he sees.
