the ache of whatever it is / we’re all begging for

like a bag of / Cosmic Crisps

ANYTHING HELPS BY TOM KNIFFIN 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 139

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The apples I like

are near the back

of the produce section

past the cardboard sign

and the young woman

in the torn raincoat

I recognize

who has

a home

in the dirt

between two trees

behind the parking lot

fence.

A blue tent

a blue roof

over the church

of her body. There

should be

a prayer

for non-believers

a Eucharist

for the soulless

to ease the

kind of hunger

believers and unbelievers

agree on.

Something the faithless

can leave

like a bag of

Cosmic Crisps

at the tent door

to answer

the ache of whatever it is

we’re all begging for.

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