I vow to give thanks
every morning I wake to find my eyes
open and my arms and legs
still function; to find I haven't
died and gone to heaven the night
before— which, mind, I'm only using
in a sort of idiomatic sense.
I mean, I'm not presuming to know
whether it's damnation or reward
that awaits me in the afterlife,
or wherever that mud path leads
after any of us exits the very last
door in this house of dusty labyrinths
and grimy mirrors. I'll stop regretting
that I've bought more books than I'll
probably have time to read in this life.
And, since everyone from Oprah to the LA
Times to Bustle is listing their Most
Anticipated Books of the Year, accept
the fact I'll probably order more
before the month is over. Every time
the midges of unhappiness and the ticks
of despair bite on my hindquarters,
I'll try not to blame the extra helpings of shrimp
fried rice turning into hidden sugars in
the blood. Moreover, I should try not to jump up
and be the first to answer every
little call for help. Reading in Wikipedia
that occasionally, captive mother pigs
may savage their own piglets if they become
severely stressed, I'll remember what my girl-
friend said when I waffled in front of a store
display for a whole hour: Just buy the damn
shoes! Eat the shiny apple while it's crisp, sit on
the porch to drink a beer and read in the sunlight
instead of straightaway going to fetch the trowel,
the vacuum, the cleaning rag, the mop.