Holy War
I can’t feel my feet in the fire
and can’t afford a drink in heaven.
A hundred ways to drive down the mountain without snow tires.
Deer and a salt lick and a tree felled on a wet road my father
haunted with his shotgun and a hat.
There ought to be a clear cut exit through these trees—
ought to be laws against acts committed by a man on a Mission from God.
Somewhere, right now, that man has his finger on a trigger.
Michael Dwayne Smith has work haunting many literary houses, including The Cortland Review, New World Writing, Chiron Review, Third Wednesday, Heron Tree, Heavy Feather Review, and ONE ART; he’s been nominated multiple times for the Pushcart and Best of the Net. A Professor Emeritus in Education and Educational Technology, he lives near a Mojave Desert ghost town with his family and rescued horses.
Fixator Press 