Why do you reek
of muses and luck, super-
stitions and such impalpable portents
as which fickle
way the wind blows?
Were you unwittingly raised to believe
in special inevitable
angels, who hover invisibly over
every timid little
spear of grass that's out there,
cooing and gesticulating
grandly—encouraging the poor thing to grow?
I must say, it seems
as much, by the way I could see you
swaying a little
in the veritable breeze you were making
as you prayed
in the same frenzy once again
last night, for fresh
fruit—instead of giving thanks
for the chance to labor
again tomorrow.
