By Gregory Crosby
The old man folded his newspaper
& asked, “Can God make a prison so
secure even He can’t break out of it?”
Well, what do you think the universe is?
We’re all on the yard together; only
some of us, those who thirst & grasp after
power, labor under the impression
that we’re the guards. A little bird flew by,
too fast to identify. The coffee
cooled past the point of no return... unless
you asked the waitress for a warm-up.
There’s always a point of return; it’s just
that you may not be the one to turn back, to
twist your head to catch one last glimpse of grace.