I spilled coffee on myself today.
Now the dark liquid is
Cooling on my pants, leaving me
A fading reminder of my
Weak grip and careless
Demeanor which will
Lose the world I occupy in the
Playground of my own thoughts-
I am the child super
Hero with no more than
A blanket cape,
Inevitably running head on
Into some misplaced lamp,
Sending it crashing to the floor.
Have I overblown my own significance?
What of the God thanking athletes?
What of the monk in the garden?
What of the frail crosses set
Beside rush hour traffic?
Has God, in His infinite wisdom,
Predestined that I might drench
Myself with this piping hot beverage
Enduring the remainder of the day
With the passive annoyance of
Discolored pants and a blemish
On the record of my steady hands?
Where is God in the grand if not in the menial?