I Have a Few Leftovers

I Have a Few Leftovers

(“Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God.” Luke 6:20)

Come let us sit together, it is nearly lunchtime.
I have a few leftovers; your choice, ham or tacos.
I’ll pour the wine if you will simply grace me with
your time.

It’s the stretch of the year when the sun awakens the sleeping earth,
when the clouds part for an hour at a time
pulling back the curtains of playful daylight.

My deck is in the sunshine now,
50 degrees feels like 70.
My conversations are softer now,
words come and go like the stellar jays
that light on the fence inspecting our faces
and the moss on the walnut tree.

I am too rich, I know I am.
And I have too much to carry.
I do not believe in poverty,
but I believe in you and the hidden
gems underneath your voice.

You should be hosting me, for you
possess
more than my easy confessions.
But today, let me pretend to be poor.
(Though tomorrow I will turn up the heat again.)

Sometimes I see as through the darkest mirror,
sometimes I see nearly well.
Today I want to hear how
sounds of weighty compassion,
the pipe organs of pain,
lifted you like hymns on a high
Holy Day.

I’ll grab the refried beans, or the horseradish
for the ham. Come sit with me and
remind me who I am.

Leftovers From the Fridge

 Leftovers From the Fridge

(“Notice the innocent person, and look at the decent person, because the peacemaker has a future.” Psalm 37:37)

Bought and sold at the outdoor markets,
a price is paid for counterfeit. A price is paid
for every elongated elocution that batters the air
and supercharges constant fear.

Offered in unkempt homes,
a loaf of bread is as good as a
prospector finding gold. The children
are noisy, the neighbors are often mowing their
lawns at dinner time,
and the hosts apologize for only offering water
to drink.

Judged and juried, injured by those who know how
everyone else
should behave,
the best and simplest are barred from front row seats.
Sometimes they are locked out. Sometimes others walk out.
And the decent heart, sans deodorant, sans decorum,
dries out and shrivels where it should had shined.

Some sit in the round, faces to faces, less hidden
and invited to speak of god without interruption. Glow
ascends from the back row toward the center where,
all together,
the sacred meal is served.

Well, yes, I suppose sometimes it is fish and chips,
sometimes tortillas and guacamole, sometimes the
leftovers from the fridge. But the sacrament is the same
when all look with blameless eyes at the neighbor who,
barred from better doors,
shows up to partake. Shows up to
celebrate.

No Leftovers

No Leftovers

“Some gathered much, some little. And when they measured it by the omer, the one who gathered much did not have too much, and the one who gathered little did not have too little. Everyone had gathered just as much as they needed.” Exodus 16:17b, 18

Some leftovers are famously better than the first day they are made. I’ve heard people swear that pizza is better the next day, eating it cold from the refrigerator for breakfast the next morning. I’ve never tried it, I can’t get over the image of a big triangle of dough and tomato sauce sticking out of my cereal bowl. I’ll have chopped bananas with my Wheaties, please.