by Jeremy Penna

Dear Jesus, I'm sick of my boss and I miss
my mother. No, Earth can't revolve around me,
but what's the sun, what's gravity, what's entropy
have that I don't? They make the green grass.
They don't know they're doing it. Ask my boss
who she'd rather have work for her, entropy or me.
I'd be lying if I said that it wouldn't be dead close.
But I'd win. Look, give my mother back to me
for one day and you can take me a year sooner.
The sun, gravity, entropy, they don't negotiate.
Surely you must. You did. I'll tell you what,
I'll slave away forever if once in a blue moon,
you'd make a leaf in the wind elevate,
stick to the wound of the twig and turn green.

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