Hope And A Better Day

By Michael H. Brownstein

I’m a little destitute and a little scarred
the angle of my breath
strong willed but not willing
as if a simple sentence
can be exhausting.
In the yard beyond pandemics
a mixing of dogs and leaf,
a fallen tree limb,
a bent metal fence.

From my apex on the porch I built
the shadow within the blue sky
bright and handsome,
a picture before me
nonplussed and gentle:

If I could open
my chest to exposé
my inner being,
would prayer pour out?

Heal the skin.
Allow the body to do the body’s work.

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