by John P. Kristofco

because they'd think him indolent,
he stayed upon the narrow path,
eyes on the horizon's promised land,
moving ever farther out beyond
the gleam of sun in streams,
the voice of people moving in the streets
until he came upon his reckoning
and reached into a pocket
for the coins he never spent,
but was told to hold his hand
and asked, instead, for pictures,
stories from the road he walked,
recollected songs as he went by,
the smell of baking bread,
feel of the earth against his feet,
and all at once he knew the fullness of his vacancy,
the weight of hands unsullied,
kept too long together
for petitions he believed
they all expected him to pray

Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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