Night falls; the sun rises.
Last night’s pageant-girl birthday queen
sleeps, white skirt rests on
the floor, a box fan from Mamaw June’s closet
whines like a heated cat.
Exit through the window,
rest on the chipped-paint windowsill,
drop to the ground,
admire the dirty gutters,
the whitewashed backdrop of
a Tupperware-polite, plastic Sunday.
Cast glances along the sidewalk edging,
pause in silence for
a dried-out earthworm.
Go two blocks, a mile past
the blinking light,
over the railroad track, toward
the church.
Walk past the parking lot minivans.
Go inside.
Choose to sit in the back row and
rest.
Sit with the skinny ankles,
the adulterers, the delivery drivers,
the gas man, the tired mother,
her son, his wife, her sister, who teaches folks how
to knit at the old bingo hall turned community center, a stranger, the guy who came out in the 8th grade and runs a supply shop, his sister and her husband and his brother who does drag two towns over because no one in this town wants to understand, two strangers, a liar, a thief, a mother who dresses too young, a father who is dying, three strangers, actors, lawyers, teachers, the pediatrician with small hands and good, good, good people who make sandwiches for all folk, mourn for those who die without families, and remember to place hymnals four to a pew. Go ahead, rest and enjoy the free air conditioning.

Stand up, follow the signs, and find
the toilet.
Notice the cricket resting in
a basket of feminine things.
        A sign?
Yeah…probably…it’s probably about how most
folk sit down to take a rest…eventually…
even crickets.