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Speaking on the death sentence,
a voice on the car radio asks,
"How would you like for your whole life
to be judged on the worst thing you've done."

That thought gives me pause as I pull into
the parking lot of the cover where I run.
I'm not one of the gazelle people, clad in 
tiny shorts, who glide over asphalt.

To the young volleyball players, God,
and everyone else, I must seem as foolish
as the well-fed geese that waddle along the paths
squawking complaints at whatever troubles geese.

I forget time here as the months roll into each other
from honeysuckle to the iron smell of snow.
But today the radio and unshriven acts bear down
as I sit in the sunlit car and stare into space

until old holy words remind me:  run slowly,

breathe deeply, and lean into sky.

                               

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Author Bio:  Deborah Scaperoth, Ph.D.

Deb teaches English at the University of Tennessee, Knoxville.  Her poetry has appeared in New Millennium Writings, Literary Lunch, Number One, Yemassee, Knoxville Bound, Stowaways, Low Explosions:  Writings on the Body, Eva Mac, and Outscape.  In the spring of 2002, she won the poetry prize for the literary journal Yemassee.  She currently lives in Lenoir City, Tennessee.  This poem is from her new book of poetry, Heart Language.  (With permission.)

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