Habit

 

The starving artist

has got a hunger to fill.

Stepping forward

an assembly line

of writing prompts

dreading the sentence.

 

Is it venial or mortal?

This sin

I’ve placed myself in

knowing I’ve no palate for it

cleansed

in religious

interrogation rooms.

Tongue-tied

out, like Jabba the Hutt

struggling

awaiting that tasty wafer.

 

Standing, stone-like

she offers up nothing

but this stern gaze

of anticipation,

a scolding with her eyes.

Finger of fire

she impresses upon me

the sign of the cross

that all is not lost.

 

At first I don’t believe

that she gives a flying nun

but as I turn

and upon catching her eye

a curt slap

to the back of the head

she tells me to stop dawdling.

 

I smile,

wearing Ash Wednesday

like a badge of honor.

hutt

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