Expedition

One day to discover my arms can’t make the helm turn. Stains on the ceiling tiles like maps of foreign explorers. To meet my legs and feet as the paralyzed do: strappy extravagances in pants and socks.

The rot’s in every barrel now. The bread is blue.

Told that Jesus is coming back since I was a boy sitting with my father in church. Now to hear a tap at the side scuttle and not be able to turn my head to see if it’s Him.

I pinch my lips together. But throw no punches at the air like my father did.

I stare forward. Like at church. Please, God.