Nuns prayed that doves descend,
that pimps and pushers discover Christ,
that nations caught in the steel traps
of dictators find sweet release.
The homeless, experts in failed systems,
prayed under their cardboard blankets.
The munitions-maker’s daughter prayed,
poolside or speeding in her Porsche
with the sun as her passenger,
that all the depressing news get lost.
One day God got around to answering
the big backlog of requests.
Uncountable TV’s imaged crowds
swaying and screaming in the great squares
of the world. Wounds turned to roses,
open mouths gulped down liberation,
breathing out sighs, “At last, at last!”
Not bombs but salvos of simple happiness
swept over the astounded cities.
It was so sudden, improbable as UFO’s:
those months of walls collapsing,
prisons unlocked, prisoners elected rulers,
kites made from constitutions,
treaties torn into confetti.
How soon would the populace falter
without its old hates and horrors?
Without devils would the nations be undone,
skinheads mourn in their useless arsenals?
Not to worry, God has told us
before, knowing our needs well
and how fast our tolerance for joy fails.
His scripts are imponderable,
His serial without end.
A new cast waits in the studio.