for Monica.

I ate with sinners the other night,
Myself the worst.
The Lord was there,
For it turned out that
(Unbeknownst to us, at first)
We had gathered in His + Name.

Our eyes looked to Thee;
It was due season.

We feasted together on simple fare
(on-sale flank-steak, cast-iron cooked)
Wine did not mock, but made glad our hearts,
Beer proved again that God loves us,
Wants us to be happy;
Thankfully, was not a brawler.

There was something there —
Not quite us, not quite not us.
All I know is that
I felt far shorter than Zacchaeus;
So glad to be invited down from that sycamore tree
To stand on your shoulders, instead.
So glad that you were there,
That I was with you.