1 april, Hair of the hound of heaven

I step out for another morning jaunt.

Holy Thursday.  My mind meanders

through the past and goes wherever it

goes, as usual, unless I make a conscious

effort to rein it in.  The shrink in me says,

subconsciously I’m wishing magically

to edit the backstory by cutting out parts

I don’t like or blunting jagged edges of

guilt or spit-shining shoes not fit for a bum.   

I’m rounding the house to the back porch

when I spy five crows huddled in the grass,

pecking away at a patch of sprinkled white

something.  My God, it’s my hair, clippings

of hoary fluff shaken from the paint-stained

bedsheet after giving myself a Covid buzzcut.

What will they use it for? I wonder:  To serve

as a filler for cracks in the intertwined sticks

in their nest? As a soft liner for chicks expected

soon?  Either way I say, glad to be of service. 

And when the angels on assigned pickup detail

swoop down to do the same with the bent and

battered frame of my cast-off soul, I’ll say, glad

to be of service, before I make my plea for mercy

and beg for a minute or two to make my case,

with the humble request there be no snickering or

elbowing in the choir loft or gallery of familiars.