May Poem 8

Barnes stepped up to the podium lot.

The camera, to his eye,

Is a creator of enlightenment.

It was a long black

Cadillac.

The front doors:

Breath.

 

The influx of new

Parishioners nest slid his car.

He had not noticed the sound

Of life is not the end

And held his breath to ease the end goal:

Creation.

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