I had already written a poem for today, off prompt due to connectivity issues.  But then I saw the prompt and loved it enough to surrender.

 

“But you’ve got to keep slouching back to your own Bethlehem.”

from “Fat” by Maurice McNamara

 

April 1, 2014

I’ve slouched all my life
toward the other Bethlehem—
which led, of course, to a harsher, deadlier place;
which helped create rather poor posture, with all that slouching.

I’ve been to that Bethlehem,
the real one,
the one that enshrines the spot
where baby Jesus’ butt ostensibly hit the ground;
the one where olive wood is carved with dental tools
and sold to tourists, except on days when general strikes are called.

I learned of slouching from Didion
and tied it to writing, which is fitting and true;
and, done standing straight or leaning right,
I slouch now left and back to my own landing strip.

With all the slouching,
the chiropractor’s on speed dial.