I want to worship the quiet gods,
the ones who blush before they speak
and hesitate before they offer a compliment
because they’re only too aware
of how it will reveal
their uncommon depth of feeling.
I want to worship the tired gods,
the ones coming off a twelve-hour shift,
who can’t stand up on the bus and will go to bed
still wearing their uniform.
I want to worship the humble gods,
the ones who are enraptured by the tiny
and imperfect: a Muscovy duck’s raw wattles,
the pattern of brain coral, the dandelions,
the ones who think that facial features
are only enhanced by the presence
of a port-wine stain birthmark.
I want to worship the true gods,
givers of water and repose,
the ones who make sure the electric bill
is in before the late fee and stops dinner
from burning in the oven while you’re busy
giving the cat his medicine.
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