Believers in the bright of yet-to-be.
Hopers in the future none could see.
We dressed up Sunday fine,
clad in faith and
clothed with greatest care,
we brushed or curled our hair,
trimmed the ‘stache,
drove to the mall,
put up some cash for Olan Mills
whose scenery probably wasn’t the only fake thing in our background;
we displayed our youth and vigor,
thin and dimpled or with apple-plumpy cheeks,
put on our best and hopeful smiles
—secure, content, and comforted,
believing all things,
hoping all things,
hoping not to have to endure all things—
trusting, knowing, that the earth will go to the meek,
certain of protection for all the future miles.
We were right—who knew?
And we weren’t right, too.