ABC

The alphabet soup sky
keeps roiling and boiling
up and over the horizon's lip.
Everything becomes one shade
or another
and the world quiets.
There is nothing poetic
about dying.
You simply do what is wanted
and you are forgotten.
Period.
Exclamation point.
Regardless,
I think the sky might fizz over
and burst into a blanket of forgiveness
if only we may forgive ourselves first.
Tell me,
do you forgive me and my
inequities?
I wonder if God laughs
the way He did in our April theater
while we sat in the back row.
I wonder if He moves
the way I yelled He did.
Maybe he's roiling
and boiling inside
just like the clouds.
Just like me.