Ninety percent of what’s wrong with you

    could be cured with a hot bath,

says God from the bowels of the subway.

    but we want magic, to win

the lottery we never bought a ticket for.

    (Tenderly, the monks chant, embrace

the suffering.) The voice of God does not pander,

    offers no five year plan, no long-term

solution, nary an edict. It is small & fond & local.

    Don’t look for your initials in the geese

honking overhead or to see thru the glass even

    darkly. It says the most obvious crap—

put down that gun, you need a sandwich.