The midweek sermon, delivered by your father
From a rotary phone in Kansas.
A storm gathered above the prairie,
Marshaled at the state line.
From there, it’s 15.3 miles to my bedroom,
Where I hold you in a way your father should never see.
Satiating things are sermon enough for us.
We’ve learned to divine from the storm.
Soaring, we push toward the azure horizon,
Away from this shameful town.
We offer no excuses,
Seek no absolution for what we do.
Your unbuttoned jeans.
My fingers tracing the tingling circuit.
Your father dials as lightning hits the line.
And we are connected with him in paradise.