word-poem:\\ steerage

Mother Superior

I took my Subaru to the car wash,
deluxe rinse and shine. I did this for you.
I imagined us cruising up the driveway,
you admiring my excellent steerage,
praising my left turn signals.
I thought we were simpatico.

I knelt before you like a minor child
deemed your every word gospel
watched you comfort the dying,
proved that I too know the value of  time,
suffered for the 1.8 microseconds
lost to the earth following an earthquake.

I honored your faith, as best I could,
your Catholic to my Jew. I held the scepter
and did not recklessly sip the wine. I brought
the penultimate flora—a rosary garden.
A job is not something that can be minded
like the Book of Job. It earns its substance.

Like us, it is made of atoms made of electrons
made of quarks made of leptons. But I am a speck
of nothing in your eye. You dusted me off,
like a crumb of gossip. I can no longer drive
without crashing. What was once infinite
has become my shallow grave.

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