The Blessings of Nothing Special *

Beer glass on bar top.

Thermal long-sleeve.

Sunny Montana Monday,

national holiday.

I live in America and I’m glad,

not because this country’s great,

but because this country’s great:

hot water standard.

Stove, gas or electric.

I don’t have a disease

that keeps my body from digesting food properly,

but if I did, I’d have

drugs to help me digest my food properly.

I don’t need glasses

to read the newspaper.

But if I did, I’d have

glasses to read the newspaper.

I can read the newspaper.

I can read.

I’m I.

And sometimes that’s a heavy burden, this I.

Sometimes this I stinks like a canine corpse

and zombies like a fascist football commentator

But this I-ing is miraculous.

The hair on my arm that ends at my hands.

The scar on my left hand that gleams hardcore.

The fingers of my left hand that still have feeling.

These feelings.

I speak English,

and for some reason everyone else does, too.

This chicken ham sandwich is delicious.

Why is there a chicken ham sandwich in front of me?

Huh, universe?

Why a universe?

Why a Big Bang

and not a small poof?

Why not nothing at all?

That would be so much more sensible.

Nonsense, thank you

for blessing me with sense

enough to be sensitive

to what shouldn't make sense

and does anyway

so I can bow to these blessings

bestowed upon nobody special

from nothing specific

in no particular order.

The bartender asks
do I need anything else.

* Title taken from Paul S. Bellwoar's poem "Columbus Day"