my mother worships a god of parking spots.
all the problems and all the wars and all those hungry babies–
but i do the easy things first, too,
cross off wake up, make coffee, on a list
that might go on to cure cancer or
walk the moon–
but probably not.

life is discovery, i guess,
every pathetic love letter, every dew-fresh morning
and why can’t they live together
that old witch and her goldfish
why not every odd pairing,
every gift given freely,
every city swinging wildly
on the grand dumb whim of tectonic plates.

i don’t want some white-lined,
sanitized, god of convenience–
don’t ask me to pray.
give me instead those who believe in:

a caught breath, the pause before,
every wish i have for you,
every wringing hand.
the last croak of the percolator,
the welcoming dawn.

sure as that first awareness
of the damn cat outside
and the sun on the window
today’s another knock-down, drag-out, fifty-fifty
and tomorrow is the place
where i gently plant my hope.