TALES
OF KARMA I
When blisters of woes
were tattooed on the nucleus
of our glory, did you tarry?
Like mother. No.
Rather like an erratic culinarian
who manages an old canteen
down the street of nonfeasance
You parboiled propaganda
and poured it at the entrance
of our redemption.
Lo! You repressed our motivation
like scrumptious diuretics
do to hypertensive patients.
Now, Cancer renders sermons
on the pulpit of your testicles;
And death knocks
at the sanctuary of your grace
You bear the olive branch.
I can only wish you well, father.
