A Postmodernism Anachronism


What is this force, theologians name sin?

They say the world winks at it—and grins.

It cuts through the surface, a dorsal fin

But hides underneath, hunting deep within.


My smart phone rings—my identical twin.

I’m a good man and have no stock in sin;

A moral man with no cause for chagrin.

So what is circling under my skin?