En Passant

       

 

        My  World

 

Oh, the Lord must have been in a muddle

To discover so much so amiss,

Which illumines why He was so subtle

When He dealt with the spatial abyss.

 

On Earth--which He made in an instant--
He crowded as much as He could,
Then discerned what a mammoth affront
We'd present to the whole neighborhood;

 

So He crafted more Earths and then set them
Beyond our iniquitous reach,
Aware we'd corrupt if we met them
(Being privy to our bent to preach).

 

Like an infant whose stairway is gated,
We dawdle in space unawares
That others, reformed and related,
Reside at the foot of the stairs.

 

Still, we may not be wrong in believing
We're the apple of His ample eye,
For despite all our Adam-and- Eve-ing,
He has yet to destroy us. Why?

 

He must keep a soft warm and fuzzy
For our quaint internecine abode
Because we're His firstborn. Or does He
Keep us as a cosmic commode,

 

A dump glutted with animus,
Worldwide but a galaxy deep?
Does He shovel all moral dilemmas
And pile them onto this heap?

 

Whatever His reason, we spin
On, a babe fenced from co-heirs;
Whether firstborn or trash bin,
We dawdle in space unawares.

 

The Lord, no doubt, knew what He wrought;
That's all we need know from this view.
(There is, of course, one school of thought
That says He was waiting for you.)

 

--  jb