Misfit

Ever and always out of sync,
I receive my Christian poem in print

when I’ve left my Bible in a box
on the curb, once again sleeping

late on Sundays. I’ve no choice
but to laugh, always emerging

from the wings into the wrong
scene, a clown at a funeral, a farmer

at a cocktail party. Theologians swear
the self is but the dirtied tip

of a wielded stick. Whistling,
I take the measure

of my horizon, only to return
to my master in the mouth of a dog.