Murray Stanhope, Local Pagan Poem by Ian Blake

Murray Stanhope, local pagan
doesn’t think he is mistaken.
Not that he’s the flinty kind
to go flipping off his pastor,
or hectoring the Bible study group.
Slouching in the pew, counting up the tiles
in the triptych scene,

Is it my fault, he asks,
If my life was composed this way?
The staccato notes of nine o’clock,
Walk into a puddle,
but have the traffic light be favorable.

Who to thank or revile then,
the ghosts of eight o’clock, or the threat of ten?

All these pinpricks,
those that stung,
those that might have been gashes,
Ashes (point A) to ashes (point B) is
an expense account a light-year long.
As my division manager would say,
when the stack of papers on your desk has gotten so
it sits right in your eyes,
Breathe! and compartmentalize!

I am certain
that for others it is otherwise.
Their movements are so broad
motifs so luminous
they could be in stained glass.
Disjointed
my morning,
lunch,
night and
if I prayed in bulk
I don’t think I’d survive
the next five minutes.

Murray Stanhope, local pagan
would like someday to be mistaken.