The dean's son shapes my equations into intermittent sanctity.
I take his word for bounty; he deflects this cavernous desire
for clarity. His gloved hands wave away authorities who clamor to define, design, decline the offers to impart. He notices my wilderness, translates it to my enemies. They balk. They say the rosary between gritted teeth. The dean's son anchors my bewildered glee. I take his name to herald vanity. He used to be in uniform, then shucked away the evidence. I thought I saw the dean's son leading traffic from the intersection of a victory march and madness. I know from him exactly where to drive. I have a folder filled with history. He resembles his progenitor. I like to think of mine, resembling all that I hold worthy. The dean's son offers up his sadness for the poor souls sentenced to remain alive here in the valley of unfairness. He proclaims illogic in attempts to share a fundamental selfishness. The large percentage of abandoned souls who need us must remain as dear as never-ending dedication to the small moments we each are.
Soldiering forward and back, the nameless ones consistently alike, who love
Sheila E. Murphy
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