In My Thirst

by John Hart

With crystal to push, two tweakers
wait in the church parking lot
for the NA meeting to let out. It’s Lent.
It’s sixty degrees, so sweaters have turned
a shade of pink, a spring camouflage.
Wendy’s advertises its fish sandwich.

I am a camel
that has wandered the desert
and am none the more godlike.
What else is there to go without?
Parking spaces? A few parishioners
arriving for Stations of the Cross fill what is left

of this little lot. Someone will have to walk.
Ascending from the basement, middle-aged men,
dried out like last year’s palms, light cigarettes,
turn away from the fasting sun. I drive back
to some anemic desert, or settle for a beach,
water too salty to drink. I’m too parched not to.

JOHN HART was born and raised in Kansas City, Kansas. He currently resides in Winter Park, Florida.