BY EUNICE FISHER
If I’m to get the door closed
When I meet my Guest in this
Jam-packed closet of clutter,
Some things will have to go.
As I open the door, a riot of color rushes out:
Red anger, purple rage, black despair,
Blue gloom, white lies, green envy.
For a long while I’ve known
That some items no longer fit:
Loose morality is too large and
Tight-fisted greed is too small.
On the top shelf
Huddles self, curled cozily
Beside its offspring:
Self-righteousness, self-pity,
Self-importance, self-indulgence.
As I sweep them all aside
I see crouched in a far corner
A muddled mess of masks
That I so carefully selected
Because
They bear the trendy label of deceit.
From the hooks of doubt,
In jaunty disarray, like mismatched scarves
At a garage sale,
Hang gossip, backbiting,
Slander, and hate.
Pride screams from the lining
Of a well-worn, treasured jacket.
(Some call it two-faced;
I call it reversible.)
With so many things marked for destruction,
Whatever will I wear to greet my Guest?
I almost forgot that
He’s providing
A miracle robe—
Blood-red,
Yet righteous-white.
It’s all I’ll ever need.
______________
Eunice Fisher writes from Perryton, Texas. This article was published November 17, 2011.
