Martha Kornblith

PRAYERS TO AN ABSENT GOD

.

That poet who stares at me.

Every night

he leaves class,

explains a verse,

shoos the flies away from the water fountain,

drinks a sip,

shakes off his blue jeans.

And he keeps doing this, always

sad,

concise.

Sometimes

the audience cheers,

and he searches his pockets,

sinking his forehead into the theater box

while I think:

Him

and the blank page.