By Bud Sturguess
Saint Matthew (not one of the famous ones)
walks to his motel room
Catching raindrops with his slumped shoulders
The rain reminds him of so many angels
He can't help thinking such things
He means no malice or spite
He keeps such thoughts separate from the state
He debates with himself whether or not those drops of rain
were predestined for the pavement,
if he's somehow done wrong by being drenched
He stops at a used bookstore
to replace his copy of
The Purpose-Driven Life
He turns backwards the Book of Mormon
and The Origin of Species
so their spines don't show
He reconsiders, convicted:
No, I mustn't. I mustn't.
People must make their own decisions.
But he turns rightside up every upside down cross
on the boulevard
The motel is a quaint little one
but it could use a cleansing
He calls Daughter One
She's busy making a video for TikTok
to show the GOP a thing or two
He calls Daughter Two
She’s busy putting water on the back porch
to absorb the power of the moon
He calls Son One
He doesn't answer
He's enlightened enough to be alone
Gideon's Bible is in the motel dresser drawer
Saint Matthew turns to page one
And utters a curse
remembering every word is true
He repents of his dirty word
and reads another hundred promises
About the author:
Bud Sturguess was born in the small cotton-and-oil town of Seminole, Texas. He now lives in his "adopted hometown," Amarillo. Sturguess has self-published several books, his latest being the novel Sick Things. He lives on disability benefits and collects neckties. Sturguess's work appears in New Pop Lit, as well as the upcoming anthologies Mid/South by Belle Point Press and The Daily Drunk's From Parts Unknown.