by John P. Kristofco
what the house keeps secret,
things not meant for life outside the walls,
only ours to tell, and so we never do:
how we look when we get up,
stairs we climb, noisy doors,
dust and socks on floors,
our angry words and soft,
“her kerchief and my cap,”
crap that never looks up at the clock,
movies on the couch at night
as if their flicking seconds didn’t count,
these rituals for none to see,
our vestments and our liturgy,
as if to bless ourselves, beseech
the changeless, changing universe
with simple, futile prayer:
let this arcane worship never end
Category: Poetry, SNHU Creative Writing, SNHU online creative writing