This is a reaching out,
an admission that you and I
are just the trial size
of some divine product.
We concede the advantage
to that which nests
in our thighs.
We exhale an ironic song
of praise to briefly enhance
that which irons
its pants on the sidewalkâs
less-than-ideal surface.
For the sake of hanging gardens
and the shadows they cast
after 4:00 p.m.,
for the sake of birds that seem
plentiful, even redundant,
sometimes a nuisance but never
a threat, for the sake of corn
and Christ and pity,
we must keep our zippers well oiled
but stuck in the up position.
– Glen Armstrong