I clipped my index finger with a tool
Physicians were preoccupied with stopping the bleeding.
As for that part of me that’s gone… it’s gone.
I’m whittled. I go not to the grave complete.
.
.
While in the thick of life’s endeavor,
I have a head-on collision with fate.
I’m amputated and patched up;
I go not to the grave complete.
.
.
My walk’s not a walk; my run an awkward dance
My right eye’s permanently squinted,
Receding hairline, my leg’s had its funeral…
I go not to the grave complete.
.
.
I see babies run in dawdles to their mothers
I see the embrace waiting for them
I see their peace when they’re home
And I desire home too.
.
.
But I’m a long way from home;
Broken, dilapidated, frail, spent
Nine fingers, one leg, one and a half eyes…
I enter every New Year further diminished.
.
.
God may be one grand illusion
Heaven a child’s fantasy
But I dare to hope, because I long for home –
His peace will make me whole.