On Praying Cliff Williams I do not pray very well in churches. When I need to pray,
I put on old boots and dark clothes, Take a piece of cardboard, folded up, And drive to a freight train yard. There I find an empty boxcar And, laying out my cardboard, sit or lie. Words come slowly or not at all—
Mostly feelings or desires, Sometimes vague longings. No one knows where I am
Except the one toward whom The longings are directed. After an hour I fold my cardboard
And find my way out of the yard. Later, when I am in church, I pray when others pray But not with them Or with their words. © 2007 by Cliff Williams. Published in The Penwood Review (Fall, 2007), 19
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