berakah
that evening
as he watched
you pull that
creased, frayed,
holey, hand-written
paper headed
"Promises"
out of your shirt
pocket for the
umpteenth
time, watching your
brow wrinkle as you
tried to make out
the fading words,
he put a marker
in his book,
set it down on the table
with his glasses on top,
slipped into his
jacket, and kissing
you on the forehead, he
headed out the door,
heading to
Bethlehem.
(c) 2015 Thom M. Shuman
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