For fifteen years I’ve walked the same path to church.
Along an early morning county road
Strewn with fallen car parts,
Broken bottles and hastily tossed underwear.
Who lives these feral lives while I pray in bed?
Or have the rundown bras and briefs
Escaped from my own passionate dreams,
Before fleeing wildly into the night?
Or (and this I literally stop to consider) maybe a naked woman is up ahead who,
After draining a final beer and stubbing out a smoke hours before,
Slipped off her clothes and a slowed her pace,
As if inviting me to overtake, and choose to be seduced into loving her
Instead of sliding safely into my usual Sunday morning space.
I quicken my pace and hurry on.
About Michael Maul:
Michael Maul is a writer living in Cincinnati. He's worked as a janitor in a library, a ranch hand in Texas, a copywriter and taught various college courses. His work has been published in city magazines, college affiliated small presses, and the BMW motorcycle owners monthly magazine.
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