The end, as always, comes unbidden.
You did not ask for April, remember: You asked for June.
And so it came, barreling down at you like a pixelated white Mack truck
going 90 or so on that peaceful eight-lane freeway.
You mustn't complain of a wish granted. --Was it not what you wanted?
See here, we have all prayers filed in triplicate: alphabetically, sequentially,
And by the possibility that God will ever notice. (We love that one.)
Set your eyes on the peaceful logs. Feel free. But don't come to me
When you wind up, bereft of diploma, plastered to the grille
of some faceless pink Formula One racer. Never mind legality.
You did not ask for easy, remember? You asked for OUT.
And out it'll be: We alligator angels just don't mess around.