(by Daniel R. Jones)
Not so much
wheat as tares these days
if you ask me.
Best let Christ do the culling,
lest I damn someone
He wouldn’t damn.
There are humans
I have to consider:
the black women in checkout lines
who call me “baby” and eke
out the last drop of oxytocin
in my world-weary brain.
Grown men who can’t contain themselves
and whip out phones to film a murder
of crows as it darkens the sky,
countless as cares of this world.
Teenaged boys not yet grown
into their bodies, heaving themselves
perpendicular against a stalled jalopy
piloted by a perfect stranger to safety.
It’s those sort of people
I have to consider,
and if they tip the scales
and stay God’s hand
as He and I hash out specifics,
looking out on this jagged
city skyline on the cusp of
a desolate Midwest winter.
Perchance there lack five of fifty,
Perchance forty and five are found there?
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4 thoughts on “The Wheat and Tares of Indianapolis, Indiana”
good words. I enjoyed the rephrased reference at the end =)
This is beautiful
Thank you so much!