So let us have our laugh;
it is enough for just a moment
sacrificed to force belief
that somewhere an intangible
divinely-ordered plan exists,
to which we must conform.
Dear God, give mercy to my plea
that that may not be so!
That there is little solid ground
on which free will may put down roots
already--I shall dignify
my entry with a lordly number,
cringing as I write, and beating back
a nagging, growing certainty that even
summoning a doubt is forordained.
There's no way out!
We all are hypocrites, and must
expunge such realistic thinking
as we write our grocery lists
and then assign them slots
within our silly days in order
just to fortify our flesh
and those elusive pleasure centers
lurking there among our bones.
But thoughts are stubborn.
They keep coming back, reminding me
of their entitlement. My to do lists
are perishable--reality is not.
Even consciousness, I read,
may plod ahead of me
long past mortality.
And I remain advisedly
a happy cog in a machine
of some beneficent monstrosity
I'll never comprehend.