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Good Friday

In the middle of nowhere—in Missouri—
Alongside a manure-smelling highway,
Farmlands sprawl across the open country,
And I watch the sun dissolving away.
The red sky blotches in bruised indigo.
The daylight bleeds out, exhausting its glare.
An ocherous harvest moon lies below
Sparse, cinereal clouds that crosshatch the air.
A Pentecostal billboard passes by,
Diverting my senses and attention.
A secluded, road-side church is nearby,
Brimming with advertised condescension.
Today, I'm told of my spiritual loss.
It's Good Friday. I see the neon cross.

poem by Tim Stensloff
Added by Poetry Lover
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