James Miller
The priest sat
next to me
on the plane
to Rapid City.
He was suffering.
Flushed cheeks, clenched
jowls. His ziplocked ice
had mostly melted
by the time
we left
the tarmac.
Still,
he held
that coolness
in his right hand.
Lowered
his forehead
so that
one would
remain
one.
At baggage
claim, the priest
lifted his
dark weight
to the carpet.
As he rolled
away, dazed,
I called out
good luck.
By which
I meant:
may your
breakfast
come,
and feed
you.
James Miller
is a Texas Gulf coast native. He won the Connecticut Poet Award in 2020. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Cold Mountain Review, The Maine Review, Lunch Ticket, The Atlanta Review, Thin Air, A Minor, Typehouse, Eclectica, Rabid Oak, pioneertown, Juked, North Dakota Quarterly, Yemassee, Mantis and elsewhere.