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.
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.
Written at 9:31 at night, in Hawaii.