Practicing resurrection. A poem.

This evening:
Me, gaming headphones, playlist,
getting lost.

I dance my gimpy body in my chair,
and in my mind I can do wicked choreo:
one-two-boom-pow!
Werk it baby, work it!

Or I listen to a piano solo that
hammers my heart,
or drums that rip right through me
to remind me of the rhythm of Heaven.

Yep. That’s how this gimpy boy
practices resurrection.

Werk it baby, werk it!

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