Читать книгу Mercy Wears a Red Dress - David Craig - Страница 7

Thanks for not pitching my garbage,

for not letting it seek its level

among the banana peels, Monster drink cans,

half of New York City.

Thank you for over-looking my failings—

which pilgrimage like prayerful

maggots up the insides of summer trash cans,

across the lids: they slowly herd themselves,

turning, tiny mouths lifted in song—

they cannot see! But that does not stop them

as they make their way toward a new Jerusalem.

Thank you for smiling through your statue’s paint

when I come to visit you in Adoration—

for liking me more than the world does.

You are home to me, not this artfully

messy office, 25-year consolation pen set;

not my widescreen TV at home; not even

football. I could cross my legs in prayer

like a yogi if I want. It would not matter.

You would pull the cover up under my chin

at night, sing me a song.

Let the world go on as it does; I will dance

around my older children, make strange noises

to amuse them. They may not understand,

but will be gathered in.

Thank you for today. Good things might

very well happen! A stranger could knock

on my door. A check could arrive,

students line the halls with lifted pens, confetti.

Someone I don’t know could cut my grass.