Some day, I must be
braver than this
and establish my own religion—
one in which I
permit things
which amaze me
to exist.
And perhaps, while I'm at it,
I'll allow what's amusing
to matter a little bit.
And who knows?
After careful consideration,
maybe I'll even be
hard-pressed to admit
that the reason
its passé Sunday services
should persist
is to give all our grandmothers
a halfway decent reason
to remember to videotape
the figure skating competition,
to lay out smart shoes
and to powder their noses,
and to keep their short
blue-ish white
hair coiled-up
in those perfectly
tight little
beautiful roses.
