Of God and L’Oréal

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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.

Cup with chickens

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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.

The century I once read about

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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.