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.