we were poor
but not deluded

and when
van morrisson's
"brown eyed girl"
comes on the radio on
that worn
old
brown rug
my brother and I
started tapping our feet
shaking our heads
to the music and
our sisters are smiling
at us and
our mother is laughing
at us

and all we needed was
laughter and love
a prayer and a song

turn up the radio

I wrestled with God
and I won,
Victory now marked by a limp.
I shuffle through life.
My infirmaries the people's jest.
Yet I know-
The roles She willfully exhanged.
She looks above from my footstool.
She does not grovel,
She is no sore loser.
She knew Her opponent.
She knew the game She designed-
The rules She made for man.
She stepped down to contend in my arena.
She shook my hand,
the Referee set aside,
She raised my arm.
At last, Atlas rises...
And Creator and Sabbath are one.