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Calvary Hill Review

How strange it must have been
to be thought a savior,
or not.
Maybe just a man on a cross
with a grin.
Because it figures, really,
Murphy's Law not Yahweh's.

And I can see all the players, all the paupers.
Faces and palms undulating,
and way up here above the morning and the stench,
the view is spectacular.
I give it five stars,
and if I could, I would applaud.

And some two-thousand years later
when I was twelve, racked by
winter morning pink burning earlobes
and the salty taste on tongue
as snot rolled over
numbed lips. No jacket that year,
just two sweaters and a flannel
underneath with a collar poking out
holding a black clip-on bow tie.
With washed once weekly jeans
and thin fake leather loafers that
got me to church every
Sunday by myself.

And looking back,
I had to admit, they
were My footprints
in the snow.

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