by Alex Mouw
My Lord when all my friends forsake me
for jobs in California, Illinois, Texas,
my house feels bubble-wrapped. When I hear
one of them got a new car, a shepherd
puppy with its ears still floppy, I want to
fly to Vienna again, eat fried pork
each night and wander the hills at the edge
of town until I find the lean-to
where, years ago, I sat with my teacher,
the city lights spread like a picnic blanket
beneath us. He drank till he was blubbering
that Augustine was the most beautiful man
in history: God flowing through each word
like whitewater rapids. Can you imagine?