He tossed his sin stone
By Patrick T. Reardon
He tossed his sin stone into Lake Deuteronomy,
set fire to his crops
and headed for Egypt City.
He divorced his ring finger with an axe,
slew his cattle where they stood
and set off down Galatians Road.
He gave up on soil,
wore ash sack cloth
and aimed for Pharaoh’s gold.
He drank Red Sea thunder in the sun,
dined on lightning strike
and stormed up the two-lane blacktop.
He greased his hair with pig fat,
embraced Job’s whirlwind
and stepped beardless toward Delta.
He cleared his mind,
emptied his bowels
and fasted for expected banquet.
He buried the saint upside down,
pilgrimed his strides
and visioned sanctuary.
He turned to arrival.
He conjured arrival.
He has yet to arrive.
Patrick T. Reardon
This poem originally appeared at eris & eros on 8.17.20.