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Will Walker

I Don't Ask for Much

Prayers of compassion for all, I suppose. 
Then my mind intercedes.
Yes, Lord, mercy for everyone.
Just this caveat: different forms
for some. The ones who come to mind:
Steer them gently off a cliff
and let them perish without undue suffering.
That other one, related:
Let him wake up one morning
to the unbearable sorrow
of his benighted life.
What then? You decide.
Just steer him halfway around the world,
to some orphanage or hospice,
and prompt him to write letters
filled with something simple
like love. Too much to ask, perhaps.
In that case, edge him
toward a complex legal matter
in which he is forced to wrestle
with someone more a jerk
even than his miserable self.
But back to my original thought:
yes, mercy. Mostly, of course,
lay it on me thick, Lord.
Also, if so inclined, honors
and prizes. You know,
the sky’s the limit. But please
no public forums in which
I’m required to stand in front
of hundreds of admirers.
Written accolades would suffice,
along with cash prizes.
Spontaneous healing
would also be welcome:
I need help with my knee,
now medically something
like a hundred years old.
Same with my thumb.
As for my pals, whoever
they might still be: Lift them up,
just not quite as high as me.
Let me enjoy their triumphs
sequentially, after I indulge
in selfish celebration
and exhausted thanksgiving
for untold, surprising benefits.
Oh, and it wouldn’t hurt
to get a few chagrined notes
from all imagined enemies
grudgingly acknowledging
my worthiness and excellence.
Thanks, Lord. I’m waiting.

Jim Zola 675DC4F9-2C15-4B6C-B6DA-57E28D416349.jpeg
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