The boar

Now the ticking clocks scare me.
The empty rooms, clock towers, belfries;
I am terrified by them all.

I really used to enjoy going to church,
singing in the choir, listening to the sermon.
Now the chairs squeal like dying pigs—

It was the boar that did it.
Fifteen feet from me that night
in the grass, rooting for God
knows what, finding me instead.

I ran, not knowing where or how,
not looking for his pursuit of me.
I ran to God’s front door, found
it locked, found the house empty

with a note saying, “Condemned.”