Saltwater Baptist Poem by John Courtney

An old man in Tulsa,
the gun he cleans is
black from sight to stock,
he pours morning milk
into a saucer on the floor;
the cat never comes.

twenty years the kitchen clock
has hung there day and night
steadily begging for weather;
the comets pass younger men
taking garbage to the curb.

her clothes serene in closets
have outlived lipstick on a coffee
mug he bought in St Louis;
he has never seen the ocean
this far inland.

An old man in Tulsa,
the gun he cleans is
wild from stock to sight,
he pours late night milk
into the floor;
God never comes.