Chris Forhan (1959 - / Seattle, Washington)

Straight A's on arithmetic quizzes, your cheek gets ground
into the concrete down here, Sir. Thank You

for sending only Your smallest monsters to find me
and Your giant silence, thank You for that, within it

I accept that the Beatles won't sing in my rec room ever
and my gerbil will not unstiffen and nibble through his shoebox.

My teeth--I'd forgotten them--the braces are working,
don't worry, and my hands, my back, no problem. I will bear

Your son across Thornton creek when You send Him
should You lower Him into my neighborhood. Let

the capsule of astronauts splash down gently,
let me stay friends forever with William and Phil

and with Jenny, a discovery of late, by Your grace.
If Dad and Mom laughing today is Your doing,

thanks. My sister's no bother, really. You haven't yet
taken my soul in my sleep, You let me lie in my bed like this,

the window lifted. Whatever that sweetness in the breeze is,
as if it's still summer, thank You for that, and for the Beatles.