Wrestle

The way he looked across I could tell that
Language, a common language, was going to be a barrier.
Broken-wing eyebrows tried to raise
And lower over the conversation, picked to bits
And cached for later. Wood and paper,
Steel and gold and death all woven into lace
And draped across the table like a souvenir caul
But still, a thing only half-said turns
Into a sermon every time. Every last time.
Preacherman raised his hands, raised his voice, raised
His expectations to the rafters and my friends, you all know
What happened next: they came back down through the beams
With a noose and a promise. The floor pitched and heaved;
Nothing for it now but to watch the cord unravel and find
Some fresh use for the matchburnt ends, woven back
In a hand-over-hand step. Someone reminded us all
To keep one eye on the ground and gather all we find.

©2008 Timothy W Holland