…I let your devoted pets live as long as you do.
I give clear guidelines about religion: one,
voluntary, aiming for love and the full growth
of each follower. And of each who chooses
not to follow. I leave out committees, tumors,
corporations, lobbyists, mosquitoes, pro football.
I put a bell tower in every town, plus professional
harmonica players, photographers, masseuses,
reporters, and comedians. Many academics,
no academia–no committees, remember?
The rivers around Manhattan run roaring, not flat,
to match the city. Each moth has its own song.
Just before you die I get to tell you, OK, this
is what you were supposed to be, a composer
with five foster kids, and you should have married
that guy in St. Paul, and let your folks move in.
Every kitchen implement works as completely
and elegantly as my thick, solid spatula.
Strawberries and dried peaches smell better.
I’d invent more verbs for the sun than shine,
stream, rise, set, hide, blaze, and glow.
I call musical chairs illegal, to save five-year-olds
that cruel moment of losing face on center stage.
Japanese maples, smoked almonds, and waltzes prevail,
and I sit back and watch, flipping channels,
country to country, drama to musical comedy.
How long can you let this universe last?