By Stan Galloway
Soberness dawns with the sun
to reveal what I could not comprehend
through the alcohol-eyes of evening.
The man sitting on the floor between my legs,
beer-fragrant, picked at lice, still semi-stupefied.
Hips left and right bench-glued prohibited
any shifting to restore or reroute circulation.
More men behind, someone reeking still of bhang,
the others just of sweat. Around us all, an aura
of depression laps from man to man and back again.
What seemed a fit reward for work well done,
a celebration capped with cannabis,
has soured fast with fickle friends and beer
the night before, and then arrest.
I cannot call like Daniel for release
from this dank den of death. No righteousness in me
alone has earned God's merit, his attention, to
even stop the lion's breath beside me.
Desperation drives the words from me—"Oh God!
If you will pluck me from this place
my life is yours forever."
Four days later
free
I start for home.
Three weeks after that,
"forever" ends.
I have fallen in love with this poem. I thank professor Galloway for writing it.
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I am so glad my memory and my words have done justice to the event that you related so clearly to me in 2004. May your forevers begin as often as necessary to finish the race well.
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