Praise God when the afternoon is closing.
I may turn these eyes, turn away from the books,
and place my feet down the groaning red stairs
the carpet on them does nothing to stifle the sighs.
Praise God, when I board the swallowing train.
Praise God how it hurtles me into the moment
and onward to death, I suppose. But not yet,
not yet. Here is the station, here is the street.
Praise God for this street and the afternoon sun is
hidden by clouds and it’s colder than last week.
Praise God for the coolness. Praise God for this
gnawing of hunger that builds as I walk and here,
here is the church, here are the people. Open yourself
and greet all the people. Praise God that the
afternoon wanes and bleeds into the night and night
softly comes. These voices are soothing, these
Hymns are familiar, and slow and moving. Inside
me is hunger, an unceasing pine. Praise God
for the pining, the hunger. I am so tired. When may
I close my eyes, and waking then, I will find myself done.
Of his writing, Kenneth Godoy says, “Poetry is bound to my soul.”
Photography by Kenneth Godoy.