every night, before bed,
a simple ritual: he walks to the foyer
and drags the deacon's bench to the door
to keep intruders at bay
has been this way, since
the day he read "In Cold Blood"
and realized what uninvited guests
can do under a god's watchful eye
the belly of the bench holds every bible
he has ever owned in his four score years
save the one by his bedside, where it sits as sentinel
against other imagined foes and woes
though he is long deaf, those
who would defile him can yet hear, and
the righteous moan of the bench on the hardwood
would give them pause
or so the old man believes;
as if a simple sound could be so profound
to tip cosmic scales in his favor, save him
from the tyranny of evil men
this very night, before bed
he takes the same walk, shoves the same
weighted wood against a locked door,
a simple ritual