April 22: Good Friday, Psalm 45, A Day Off

I didn't work today.  I usually don't on Good Friday.  Between church services and Easter shopping, I have enough to do.  I just got back from my second worship service, and it's 8:47 p.m.  After I'm done typing this post, I' going to go home, dust a few things to finish my house cleaning, and then I may have a drink (and I ain't talking about tea).

Yesterday's poem stressed me out so much, I had serious doubts I was going to get anything written today.  However, I woke up refreshed, excited for a new poem.  If you read my psalm yesterday, you should go back and reread it now.  It has been revised extensively, and it is about a thousand times better.  Sometimes the deadline forces me to publish a poem that's not quite done cooking.  Now, Psalm 44 is cooking, to quote my Cajun friend.

Today's poem is pretty self-explanatory.  I started writing it during my first Good Friday service this afternoon.  I finished it a little while ago.  It's about sacrifice.  It's about redemption.  I think.  Anyway, it's done.

Saint Marty would like to order a gin and tonic, heavy on the gin.

Psalm 45:  Good, Bad, And Ugly Friday

I used  to think I’d be struck

Deaf and blind if I stepped outside

Between noon and three o’clock

On Good Friday.  My family would

Unplug radios and TVs,

Let the phone ring and ring,

Never answer, in case Satan

Was calling to tempt us to eat

Meat or chocolate or jellybeans.

For those three hours, we lived

As ancient Israelites, I thought,

Unable to depend on any modern

Luxury that made life easier.

I ignored hunger, nausea,

The urge to pee or defecate, use

A flush toilet, while Jesus hung

On the cross for me, forgave

Me for finding the Playboy

Under my brother’s mattress,

Sneaking into the bathroom

To see those secret woman

Places Saint Joseph never knew.

At exactly 3:01 p.m., I went

Into the backyard, breathed

Air purged of sin, clean

As salt waves in the Pacific.

I was a chalkboard washed

Of math problems, spelling lists,

Ready for new lessons,

New vocabulary.  Not words

Spray-painted on gas station walls

By people who wandered

The streets during the sacred

Three hours.  No.  Holy words

The nuns taught me in religion class:

“Suffering,” “sacrifice,” “redemption.”

In three days, I’d meet Jesus

At Dairy Queen, split a vanilla malt

With Him, talk about all

The things I’d done.  The good.

The bad.  The ugly.  Tell Him

Of my suffering, sacrifice on Friday,

All for Him, only for Him.

Give Him the whipped cream,

The maraschino cherry.

Can we have two straws?