For Bill Carpenter

For Bill, who far across the nation lives
his life, and yet can spare a speck in time
for me, I write this, here and now. For the Muse thrives
in wastelands, deserts. Thinking of a rhyme,
I keep this pace, this measure the Lord gave me
in my English ear, this ticking of a clock;
the march of syllables that haunt and save me;
the living water drawn out of the rock.

At times I rage, like Moses, and I break
the law and order of my flesh and bones,
abuse this fine machine that I've been given;
but that small voice will still as plainly speak,
and make a temple of my sticks and stones
and build a trembling stairway unto heaven.


12.13.18