by Phil Flott

The sound his life made vanished like a gun-
Shot after his long disagreement
with the parameters of life’s moment.
There wasn’t time for child number ten to have fun.
He’d slipped down as a lad and cracked his arm,
I grieved for him, his undeserved harm.

We didn’t know as a grown-up he lived in grime -
His house had many wads of dirt and mold.
Blown by the furnace that kept away the cold;
He lived a dirty mess so long a time.
The filth he didn’t mind, although he should’ve,
He never lived the life we thought he could’ve.

But his soul he kept preserved as gold for the Lord:
A girl complained to me he would not make love.
I smiled; I knew he thought so much of God above,
With whom he’d promised he’d live in accord.
To walk with God refreshed him here below,
To taste of sin he did not want to know.

New life awaited him around the corner,
Moments of love’s deep rest that see no end;
He knew about that brightness from his friend
Who says, ‘Come up and live, you’re not a mourner.’
He hands him clothes brilliant, shining, white,
Clothing of peace eclipsing earthly night.

My heavy step is closer to the grave.
Over there on high I want to make the team,
But not just yet, I’m content to sleep and dream.
I’ll wait a while to meet the man who gave
My brother graces from eternal trees
That flourish in the Spirit’s holy breeze.

Phil Flott is a retired Catholic priest.  He has recently been published in Poetic Sun, Vita Poetica, In Time of Singing, and many others.