I Point My Tan-Topped Hands To Him, (a God poem)


wind myself up the way my buddy,
Dave, taught me when I was fifteen,
kick my leg toward high heaven
land on it, pivot,
and throw him everything I’ve got,
circuitously wrapped in the hardest,
throwable sphere I can find.
In his perfect swing
(didn’t realize he knew baseball),
he smashes me a line drive
in such a non-elapse of time
that the morsel becomes juicy,
pierces my chest cavity
to lodge in my heart.
I gasp in delight that he takes
so much attention with me.
I throw up my glove –
can’t use it on him.
Everyone * laughs.

*Hebrews 12:1

Fr. Phil Flott is a semi-retired Catholic priest from Omaha. NE. He has written most of his life and been published hundreds of times in journals such as, Pensive Journal, Sangam, and Vita Poetica. He is a member of Catholic Literary Arts.


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