Man. It’s some dumb wonder, I’d say, how
you fooled a man so dedicated, educated.
Man. Dad kicked dust from his shoes to
toss his lot with you, sad man of Christ.
You seemed worth your salt—or oil,
or incense, as the case may be. Holy smoke.

Man. I can’t believe it: pierogi-pinching
babas and wide-eyed kids in cassocks
have to sop the stupid fruit of your
blunder-vine. Why. Why’d you make them
drink it? Think while you’re in rehab, man.
Take your vice-a-dote on ice and Jesus—
somebody—slip the guy a mickie, would ya?
An extra hit of integrity on the rocks?

Man. I know I’ve got a rotten log-jam
in my own eye, damned even as I
stand here ranting, but my vision’s cleared,
smeared with God-spit and mud:

Man, you’re sorry. And Man, I’m sorry, too.

Born in Pittsburgh, Constance Kramer grew up in Canton, Ohio and now resides in Tallmadge. A microbiologist by training, she’s fascinated to discover how the visible and invisible world can be examined with words, as well. She lives a double life as the lab manager and a student of creative writing at Kent State University, Stark Campus. Her work has recently appeared in Poetry Quarterly, Burning Word, Canto, and Common Ground.