by Paul Hostovsky

Blessed are the poor excuses
for they are inherently of earth.
Earth, that poor excuse for heaven.
Heaven, that worst excuse of all
for not showing up for your own
life here on earth, where all the poor excuses
live. Just listen to the poor excuses
singing together, hoisting another
draft of a poor excuse up to their lips
and spilling it down their shirtfronts,
and laughing the loudest, and telling
the biggest whoppers. And what on earth
are we to make of all the poor excuses
that we make here on earth? I say:
praise them. For they are in the world
and of it. For they are falling from the lips
like so many colorful, beautiful, pathetic
dead leaves dancing down and no one
is using them for anything except
maybe the children, and here and there
a few suspicious-looking grown-ups
gathering them into piles, into poems,
and digging around in them till evening comes,
and heading home with one or two
still sticking to their heads.

Copyright 2015, Paul Hostovsky

Paul Hostovsky is the author of seven books of poetry and six poetry chapbooks. Visit him at

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