Giving Daddy Back His Head
Oil on canvas board, 11" x 14"
A retired educator, Dave Sims makes art and music in the old mountains of central Pennsylvania. See more at www.tincansims.com
The Votives
CS Crowe
At midnight on a Monday, Meth-mouth Martin Who lived in the woods behind the Presbyterian Church Decided he should set fire to the old building He dragged branches, pine needles, and pine cones From the woods and stacked them beneath the window He pushed over the dumpster and picked through the trash In search of paper and cardboard that hadn't gone soggy He tried to ignite the tinder with a half-empty butane lighter His tongue worked along the dirty edge of his last tooth Old needle-scars itched. How many times did they tell him His body was a temple before they turned him away? Hungry. Cold. Maybe a little high. It wasn't his fault The world was burning, and he was just living in a cloud of smoke Light headedness. Shortness of breath. Heart palpitations These were all symptoms of the same condition Cigarettes. Vape Pens. Car exhaust. Scented Candles We all chose our poison, but Meth-mouth Martin? At least he was smart enough to get high off his. Tuesday morning, the preacher found him asleep The dew turned to frost on black garbage bags Black scarred the paint up to the leaf-packed gutters Meth-mouth Martin went to jail again. Come Sunday The church took donations, the plate overflowing It didn't matter how much a single can of paint costs I burned a candle in the church. Set it on the altar Later that night, I saw smoke in the distance It was not the church that burnt down. This time We were all of us a holy place in stages of neglect Dusty. Stained. Unkempt. Highly flammable