While the faux
Oenophilia guests
languished
on cheep, saccharin
sweet Moscato,

thieves disported,
distorted and departed,
carrying off the
dregs of the cask
of Amontillado,

leaving sleepily inebriated
guests skunk drunk
and incommunicado.

The tea-totaling host
looked like a ghost
when he saw the
handwriting on the
wall at Mar-a-Lago.

While he twittered
and shivered,
the writing came clear,
“We, the public, have had enough
of this joke of a reality show.”

Even the devil quotes scripture.

The children are still in cages.

“O let me ne’er forget
That though the wrong seems oft so strong, God is the ruler yet.”

Work out your salvation with fear and trembling.

Vote!

Back in the early seven-
ties, he was exposed to
words, used by progress-

ive, religious academics —
orthodoxy and orthopraxy.
He wasn’t sure what they

meant but he felt really
smart using them. He was
told that academically

oriented divinity schools
and even denominational
seminaries are geared

toward orthodoxy and a
heavy dose of ortho-
praxy was needed to

balance the scales.
Years later, long after
he had ceased using the

words, he learned that
orthopraxy, in his part-
icular circles, was simply

a metaphor for following
Jesus, like St. Francis of
Assisi did and we are all

called to do. Wouldn’t
it have been easier
to say, “Jesus said,

‘Follow me,’ and that
is the way it should
be”? But orthopraxy

is so much more sophist-
icated and we all sound
a whole lot smarter.

He sits and counts
1, 2, 3, 4 as his head
rotates left on the
axis of his neck. 5,
6, 7, 8 as his head
rotates right on the
axis of his neck —
back and forth to
100. He listens to the
crunch till the crunch
fades into the distance.
He breathes deeply —
in quickly – 1, 2, out
slowly — 1…2…3…
4….He opens his eyes,
looks out the window
at silently swaying
dune grass, rhythmic-
ally moving to the
beat of his heart, the
beautiful beat of his
heart. “As the hart
panteth after the water
brooks, so panteth my
soul after thee.” Count
down to ten minutes
on the wristwatch
alarm — ten minutes
of kairos in chronos
minus the plethora
of mind wandering
distractions like
our present, pathetic,
political predicament.

The man took his female Chocolate
Lab, new to the desert, on her
nightly walk, down the stairs,

but not out on the trail. That
would be in the daylight. She
would be restricted to a few

small patches of grass woven
in among the desert landscaping
as an accent and for just this

purpose. As she walked, looking
for just the right spot, he directed
his powerful headlamp onto the

side of the hill and there, amid
the darkness, flashed two eyes,
high up. He shut down the light.

The eyes disappeared. He directed
the light again; the eyes appeared
then disappeared and reappeared —

on the move. He looked at his Lab
now done with her business and
just sniffing out the tiny territory

and said, “Girl, that’s enough terri-
tory for the evening; let’s go. We
will climb the hill in the bright light

of the desert sun to see if we might
see the one who was here long before
we. She, descendant of the wolf,

never lifted her nose to the hill.

“Do what I want or you’re
dead in the water.”
They’ve already drowned
for not doing what they oughter.

The waves retreat.
The high desert
and mountains greet.
Old friends meet.

When thinking of the essence of our dear life
and the countless adventures we have had,
I cringe at the thought of the myriads of strife
I have caused and with such pain as they did land.

On the road trip to the Southern ways
and all the walks along the Gulf Shore beach,
I recalled backpacks of former days
and bike trips through states within reach.

Continuing on the trip out to the West,
I remembered kayaking great lakes and small.
We sat in wonder at Superior’s best.
We have jogged desert paths in the fall.

And before this winter’s road trip is through,
please forgive me, I forgive you, I do love you.