Holy Father, I can’t give thanks to You,
for although I am hungry and thirsty
there is plenty of bread and water
at my table,
neither can I be grateful to You
for despite sadness and fear
there’s love and fondness in my home
nor can I praise you
for
even though the time calls for a feast
there is wine and friends in the yard
and loving hours.

Elsewhere, just out of ear range
is the blast, the wail, the affront
and over the body devoured by flies
is the silence following the mangling

Not differently
from here,
when,
past the carnival,
only confetti and paper waste
reminisce the celebration.

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