Liberty's Sparkle (20)

   
   "Liberty's Sparkle (20)"
   
   Tom was like Linus waiting for the Great Pumpkin.  Outside his mobile home in the summer, sitting on yet another chaise lounge, waiting for an angel to wisely expound.  A poor, illiterate poet.  Tom's problem.  That damn bit of being a delinquent, in the sense that he could not read, but Mom and her poetry, the seemingly crazy Psalms, when a King once gave great, vociferous ode concerning his fiery loins and desiring the whiteness of snow.  Not wanting the Holy Spirit to be thieved away.
   Yet this made Tom like unto another religious figure, who I shouldn't talk about.  And in no way is Saint Gabriel's literary gift obscene.  
   Tom knew this too.  His mother read to him, almost everything--he just couldn't get the knack.  
   Finding an address for a hot, steaming pie covered in banana peppers and anchovies was a difficult task.  No way he'd graduate to paper boy--tons of mailboxes with words written on them and mixed, like algebra, with numbers--and the paper boy dreams of them perpetually; nonetheless, never goes postal, playing mailbox baseball to chew on his humble cravings.
   Tom heard a howl.  Up here in this Midwestern State, down on the lower peninsula, there were Canis lupus possibilities.  He knew they were here, hoping to be cured of many things by a bold beast emanating promising power.  
   Then, Liberty and her golden calf muscles glimmered in the sense of his beaming gray eyes, underneath the moonlight.  All was well in his grinning direction, for the moment.