The preacher told me once,
“Giraffes have valves in their necks.
They hold back blood so the giraffe can bend down
Without passing out—what a design!”
He smiled when I nodded,
“That is amazing,”
But his expression quickly hardened
When I explained natural selection.
I was asked at a funeral once,
“Isn’t it sad? He didn’t go to church.”
As if that’s what did him in.
I couldn’t help but scoff.
No, it’s not sad, I thought.
Lucky bastard never missed kickoff.
I played it off as a cough
And nodded, biting my tongue.
I answered a knock at the door once,
And was greeted by a teen in a sharp-creased suit.
He held an attractive brochure
And told me how much room was left
Up in the sky utopia—that I shouldn’t delay my acceptance.
He hurried down the patio steps when I asked him,
“What if I die before you, and I take the last spot?”
But I have looked up at night more than only once
And wondered how
Each of these diamond flecks
Could have been so perfectly arranged there.
I’ve wondered why
I was born
To the person and place that I was,
And I’ve wondered,
What happens if I’m wrong?
