Photo by Kᵉⁿ Lᵃⁿᵉ on Foter.com / CC BY-NC

Contemplating reconciliations

The mysterious apposition of two pendulums
— strings in gyration, if you pardon, dangling
like hangmen’s nooses on Sundays, waiting
for the new dead come day after or Monday, for
no one deserves to die on the Lord’s day.

After the best meal has sated, and grandma’s potatoes
are served with prime rib, rare or medium
each bite will be savored, and guidelines are favored
for a long night of vigil, when the end is determined
— or perhaps one should turn before one must.

Though a fire quietly rages, in the brush filled with sages
while the wise prairie dogs mount their doggerel puns,
and the land sharks are swimming, like a Frank Herbert vision
to devour judge and jury and prodigal son,
for the long night will always come.