Heavenly Father, help me
to remember that
the blonde
who cut me off
in traffic
and gave me the
finger
may be on her
ninth life
with a tomcat
mate
and a litter of
kids—
the dimwitted
teen at McDonald’s
who can’t make
change
and walks with a
limp
is as fragile
as his shattered
genes—
the thoughtless
smoker
who
second-handed me
probably can’t
think
of a way to tell
his family
his biopsy was
positive.
Help me to remember
that on the dark
and foggy streets
of life, one
careless turn
and you are on
the corner with a sign,
asleep in a
doorway,
lost forever—
that in the nowhereness
of anonymity,
some folks
pawn their
front-office dreams
for the
back-alley oblivion
of the
temporarily dead—
and Heavenly
Father,
whenever I find
someone’s hope
dangling at the
end of a noose,
help me get up
off my knees,
sweep him into
my arms
and lift just
long enough
for him to cut the rope.
for him to cut the rope.