Day 156

Today's words:

Hymn
Mite
Bingo
Bandage
Result
Pliers

This poem is a hymn
To all life, from the smallest mite
To the old ladies at the bingo
Table. To the wounded man wearing a bandage,
His wound the result
Of a mishap involving a pair of pliers.

I'll pull it out with pliers
If I have to. This hymn
Is the result
Of thinking about the mite,
The bandage,
And the bingo

Table. Bingo!
You see, use those pliers
Wrong and you'll end up with a bandage.
Let me begin the hymn
Again. It starts with a mite
And ends with a result.

The result
Of winning at bingo
Or of killing a mite
Is the same. Pliers
Or not, we're all dead in the end. No hymn
Can mask the pain, no bandage

Can soothe it. I'm ripping off that bandage
Right now. I know the immediate result
Will be more pain, but in the end it will feel like a hymn
To freedom for the newly-exposed flesh. So it's all the same: bingo,
Pliers,
Mite.

And just as the mite
Dies in the end, so the bandage
Must come off, even if pliers
Are needed to do so. The result
Wouldn't be out of place at a bingo
Game in a church basement. So sing a hymn

To the mite whose work is the result
Of placing a bandage over the eyes while playing bingo.
Using my pliers, I pull out the hymn.