A Small Heaven

Give so that you may not be rejected. We don't know how to treat ourselves. You will find us in shallows, ashes I always need to talk. You and I count on substance. He walks with a book that weighs more than any you have in your knapsack. She sweats through the first few pages of a letter. My father is a recluse. My mother weaves the family crest. The clues are well-placed. We have not succeeded. I am tired of looking at things that are well-made. God is not composed. Let us pray.

My best friend doesn't know how to spell. My father is a generalist. I am a reformer. We are both guests and housekeepers in this hotel. As Dad, he struggled with me until math was simple. As son, I forgot the pressure of the classroom. The bricks of the schoolhouse passed through me on the way to the library. I read underneath the painting of a pen on the stage. It is only a painting I remember. I prepped my walls and felt black instead of white. I went to the fairground and heard the music of my boiling days. I was a soldier without a battle. Let us pray.

My father told me to run with moderation. My father told me to bicycle until I healed my weakness. I raced an entrant in a T-shirt and rode against an athlete in business clothes. I played games until they began to seem like a classroom. My dad and I played tennis at the same level. We followed baseball with the same passion. I sought to make a masterpiece in art. It took me years to learn that repetition is an element in art. Masterpieces are made once. Let us pray.