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I don’t know, Lord, but sometimes I feel 
like all my accomplishments 
could fit inside a Pez dispenser,  
with room left over for candy. 
Let my coins spilled on earth 
add up to a fortune in heaven. 
I’ve seen bricks content 
to hold up other bricks. I’ve seen 
middle managers whose bosses 
called them successes, whose families 
were sunshine at the soccer complex.  
But you made me a brick that wished  
to be a wall, and if I’d succeeded 
at becoming a wall, seeing people trapped 
inside or kept outside, I would have wanted  
only to fall. Lord, let me fall. 
Call it an accident or call it 
my plan tucked inside your plan. 
Verily Lord, you made me 
and I made mistakes 
and you filled me with ambitions 
like air inspiring a balloon. Pop 
is the sound I make calling out 
to you from the torn-up dark and crash 
is what I do in my car and my bed. 
You speak. I can almost hear you.
I see your lips move 
every time I see a flock  
lifted by the dead distant 
light of the stars.

Photo by Jason Leung on Unsplash

Tom C. Hunley

Tom C. Hunley has published poems in The Raintown Review, Rattle, Raven Chronicles, Red Wheelbarrow, Redactions, Relief: a Journal of Art and Faith; Reunion: The Dallas Review, Rhino, River Oak Review, River Styx, Rock & Sling, Rosebud, and Route Seven Review. He won the 2020 Rattle Chapbook Prize for Adjusting to the Lights. He directs the MFA Creative Writing program at Western Kentucky University, where he has taught since 2003.

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