THE SIX-HOUR

I cruise past
Santaquin
and contemplate a suture for my open
heart wound.
I wish you’d put away the salt shaker
and lemon juice.
These hills are actually mountains
and I’m not much of a climber.
I always forget the rope,
unless I plan to hang myself.
I’ll quit being Judas
if you’ll be Lazarus
and wake
from your four-day hiatus
and be more than mortal.
I continuously gaze
heavenward for reprieve
and find there’s
a hole in my pocket
where my soul
has fallen through.
There you stand,
mud-caked work boots,
hammer at the ready
to stomp and pound.

Judas isn’t accepting
the silver today,
and Lazarus
eventually settled on a tomb.

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