like the kid who knows

he’s a year too old

to sit on the mall Santa’s lap,

waiting in line anyway,

hedging his bets

to make certain that new dirt bike

is under the tree.

Which is to say, I am aware,

but not sorry,

about my concurrent desperation for

and disbelief in

some heavenly robber baron

peering down at his factory floor

from a high office window,

ready to deliver us non-union

hoi polloi whenever we cry out

for his benevolence. Right now,

I’m praying the woman I love

is not pregnant.

With God, I use the word ruin,

ignore the guilt that comes

knowing I am made in His image.

I told the woman I love

I’d go with her to the clinic,

pay whatever the cost,

but she says, no,

she says, we’re keeping it.

Fear turns every prayer

into a bargain.

Reader, am I more ashamed

of what I’m asking to be done,

or how you can see me

kneeling at the edge of my bed

with the limited omniscience

I’ve given you?

Because if you can see it, God can see it.

Silence, His answer also.

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