One day out of forty

         (a poem for Lent) 
                                                             

There are times

I so want to
be bad—
smoke a cigar or pipe,
swear without regret,
another Scotch,
just one hit,
stay in bed till noon,
say exactly what I think
feel
know
doubt
wonder
question,
though it may be
my quickest way to hell.
Didn’t Jesus deign
to descend,
rescue the lost
forgotten ones,
willfully bad or those 
who just stumbled from despair?

Don’t write when
you’re buzzed.
You’ll think
it’s the only way
to unearth yourself,
speak your truth.
In the sober morning
you think
you should throw this away
but you won’t.
Waste just might be
the main course
of redemption.

© Cynthia E. Robinson 2013