In a Thrift Shop in Denver

An old guy walked by, farting in a thrift shop in Denver.

I missed my father, so I started to follow him.

What people give away! Srsly. Bobble-less heads, rejected ornaments,

a blanket with a hole chewed in it.

Meanwhile that guy pppffst out what the Greeks thought

was how gods spoke to us with each step.

All morning I’d been stuck in a group reading the bible.

One woman wore a laminated thing around her neck that said

Please Speak Clearly! I kid you not.

I wanted one that said Warning: I’m An Asshole!

for that one autodidact, grinding his rancid opinions in

a Tupperware. The baby Rabbi whispered: God responds to our tears.

A young, anguished fellow replied: My father told me not to cry

at bullies, it eggs them on, his voice choked. But then Dad said: OK, cry.

Outside clouds over the Rockies, gray, pink and radiant, gather sky corners like the hem

of a robe, over the unknowable cleft on that farting guy in the Arc Thrift.