Sometimes I Become a Gray Smoke
in the deepest spot of myself pit
on the summit of thought
the wind of wisdom has hugged me…
Forgive the old man for his poor choice,
For his enormous guilt that never ends,
Since Pilate said his verdict in cold voice
And then, in hesitation, washed his hands…
I see her leaning over to listen to her daughter
In the coffee line.
It is a rainy day in spring
Months after he died.