In the morning, when I talk to God, I say,
I would love to find a clean pair of boxers
waiting for me on the laundry rack,
but then don’t worry about me, God;
you must have much bigger matters to worry about – in fact,
tell you what,
why don’t you cure an African child of tuberculosis instead.
Prayer probably doesn’t work that way, number one,
and also, you’re not to play with God.
But I think She understands.
She’s known me longer than the Mississippi.
Every day I love God abundantly, and in return
she remunerates me in poetry. These days,
the poems flow easy, just
Hey God, how about a poem, I say, and then they come –
these silly, worthless, light, fluffy, lovely poems.
If anyone were to ask where my inspiration comes from,
I’d probably have to laugh.
Where does your breath come from?
None of this chitter chatter amounts
to much. My life is birdsong
on someone else’s pleasant walk.
And happily so.
I will say this though:
If one day you meet me and I smell a bit pongy,
I hope that you might
join me in praise
for the uneven calculus of prayer.
And if on another day, I find those undies,
let’s curse the fresh air, and cry,
what gives, God, what gives?