Most days I saunter blissfully through the streets of my hometown,
singing hymns and changing diapers,
measuring the cream and sugar of my love.
Most days I stroll down State Street
on National Skirt Day, cheering the Badgers, smiling at Catfish,
and craving a Plaza with cheese.
Most days my transgressions remain buried like my Father and my Son,
frozen in my youth by a biting winter wind,
drowned in ten thousand lakes of The Glenlivet and
unnumbered boots of Bitberger.
But there are fugitive moments of sobriety
when the wind’s teeth forbid my forgetfulness,
when I’m violently awakened from my lollygagging by Leonard Cohen’s
growl,
when I’m forced to ruminate cud and bile.
If I chew long enough, I can even remember their names.
I silently recite His Prayer;
not the version I learned as a child,
but the translation I need as a man:
“And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those that trespass
against us…”
I’m led away from temptation,
delivered into the arms of the unwritten.-C. Holm
1/25/13
