Inspired by Anne Sexton
Psalm #1: Gravy
Let there be gravy enough for all potatoes creamy enough to dream by.
Let there be salt enough to stave off the bland creamed corn days, mediocrity congealed.
Let there be chips! Salsa! Cold Mexican beer to wash away the karaoke shame.
Let there be a surplus of broccoli to keep our spirits regular and shining like shamrocks.
Let there be white chocolate raspberry cheesecake for we deserve the occasional orgasm.
Let there be lentil soup like a lake to splash in for the sanguine Italian in us all.
Let there be pink cotton candy to assuage the sting of being too small to ride the Zipper.
Let there be freshly squeezed lemonade to bring sunshine to our soggy pity parties.
Let there be Taco Bell orders done right. No beans. Extra sour cream. Plenty of cheese.
Let there be nectarines/plums/cherries/apricots in the grove of You Done Good.
Let there be spicy peanuts. For those who are allergic to peanuts…let there be popcorn.
Psalm #2: Lubrication
For I pray that there will be lubrication the next time America fucks me up the ass.
For I pray my obeisance will endear me to the sword wielding angels.
For I pray that my husband will remain charmed by my inadequacies.
For I pray for a perfect jonathan apple to compensate for a lackluster cookie.
For I pray for a more dignified way to achieve orgasm than free online porn.
For I pray that the rats will eventually flee from the sinking ship that is my mind.
For I pray that I will never be alone on an island with other starving poets for cannibalism would surely ensue.
Psalm #4: New York City
For I have toured Manhattan twice and both times sucked as I had the wrong guide.
For I drank a beer on Bleecker street and still didn’t get a high on life buzz.
For the Empire State Building gave me vertigo and crowded elevators make me nervous.
For the Met disappointed me. No Dali in sight.
For Ground Zero was still smoking and to me it was not a tourist attraction.
For being rushed out of a bookstore as grand as the Strand makes me want to kill.
For I am not a fan of Italian food, not even authentic Little Italy lasagna.
For all it takes to make me truly happy are spicy Buffalo wings with blue cheese dressing and a frozen margarita.
For Strawberry Fields didn’t have any strawberries.
For the whole damn city smells like a zoo.
For I would live there if I could afford a loft in Tribeca.
For despite all my posturing I’m a snob at heart.
Misti Rainwater-Lites writes a lot of poems and the occasional novel. Her poetry has appeared online and in print in Poesy, Zen Baby, Zygote in my Coffee, Nerve House, St. Vitus Press, Yellow Mama and many others. Misti is also the editor of Instant Pussy, a monthly online poetry zine. Her self-published poetry collections and novels are available at Lulu.com.