How wonderfully wearies the Lord
the ego, filing countersuit
after countersuit
against our vanity, depleting
with blemishes and disappointment
our reserve of can-do and
will-do – Oh I’ll get this
and I’ll get her, I will and
I will – taking His time
(He’s got all the time in the world)
while we chase our crooked schemes
of self-help and maintenance.
He reminds us we’ve better things to do,
but we don’t hear because our eyes
are fixed on our face
going up in wrinkles.
I want a coffee cup with chickens,
like I used to have or gave
to a girl
to imagine
married life with me.
How good it would be.
With a long view from the window
and one or two clouds
(but no chickens,
just the idea of them).
Now, married
with children (no chickens),
in the city not the country,
I can see life with me
is a fifty-fifty
proposition –
and less than that if you want
big bucks or chickens.
(Some do.)
Or a man who’s not cranky.
(Some do.)
Still, it’s good to remember
how I hoped it would be
(and is)
so I’m going to track down that cup.
Here in this city I’m sure there’s a cup
with chickens.
We have come to need
ever-littler men
with ever-littler hammers
to fix things –
to climb through the keyhole
when your car won’t start
and shine a flashlight
on the computer inside.
Sometimes a bolt is loose
or a screw,
and he has a mini-
tool for that.
I’ve met these men.
One used to work for
Lucky Charms, a
cush job, but
as luck would have it,
he got downsized.
They roam like cats in the night
In no need of another meal
but with eyes to see
and time on their hands.
They are restless and satisfied.
And not three, but one,
for each is inclined
to think he’s the other
vibrant, silky
cat.
Utrecht Journal 