Say Grace

So here’s the issue

as I see it: you’re used to

wearin’ a seat belt. And it ain’t

Mr. Ford’s fault at all.

He just put a bicycle and a wagon and a train together

and wa la!

Maybe ‘s just we shouldn’t be diggin’ into the earth

any deeper ‘n six feet—

right depth for berryin’ folks,

right size for leavin’ your business in.

After that, leave the planet alone.

Throw rocks at the antelope,

run it to death,

but leave an offering in its mouth.

See, that’s the real problem—

no way to be truly grateful for your food anymore.

Sure, you fold hands say Grace, but

who’s takin’ the time to paint the picture

of the factory farm and hang it over their dinner table?

You say Grace but don’t see it risin’ out the smokestacks to rejoin the heavens.

Say Grace and don’t think about the trucker

seein’ the sunset over the Mississippi

crossin’ that big iron bridge.

No Grace in abstraction.

No Grace without blood on your hands.

And sure, there’s Grace in your microwave

but you don’t get it just by adding water.

You get it just by addin' water

after  you’ve carried the water

back from the river,

after you know how it all fits together

‘cause you helpt it fit.

But you, you just runnin’ a paper race

and no one wants you to even stop a moment

take time to think about your desk and your monitor

and where it all came from.

No one wants you to feel Grace,

just want you to say it.

‘Cause they know if you felt it,

you might just stop runnin’.