George Frank

had built a house
with his hands in Vermont.
Stone foundation,
gravity fed water from
an artesian spring,
every board milled
from trees on the property.
He was the kind
of laborer who rich men
would pay by the hour
to spend three months
building a stone fireplace.
He’d take a long time
choosing each stone.
He was a craftsman.
Of stone, lumber,
and the needs of
rich men’s wives
for a man who
knew how
to pay attention.

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Jesus

Jesus, I hope the truck runs.
Jesus, I hope the generator starts.
Jesus, I hope the well pump runs.
Jesus, I hope the horse isn’t lame,
the drought ends,
the rain ends,
the hay isn’t moldy.
Jesus, I’m beginning to wonder
if I’m unqualified
to be the atheist I aspire to be.

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