11.19.20

This world is loaded with disaster,

I’m thinking now of:

hotel bedsheets with ambiguous stains

and hormone-injected beef packaged

by the metric ton and shipped inside

shoddily vacuum-packed plastic sleeves,

breeding ground, festival type environment

for four-syllable bacteria.

Additionally,

it is a miracle that things don’t more

often fall upon our heads. Every bridge

I cross beneath I say a silent prayer down

at my feet, afraid to face the reality of

concrete lattice work above me, praying,

silent moving mouth, an urban fish, praying,

Lord–thank you for allowing this day to pass

without my head being turned to soup. You

are glorious, O, Lord, for having shielded my

existence from the ballistic hazards of the

world of your invention.

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Written at 9:31 at night, in Hawaii.