Who made you?
Who made you imperfect?
Who made you imperfect,
but failed to flaw
the swan or the bear
or the grasshopper
perched there on the arm
of my lawn chair
content to spit tobacco or jump
completely unrepentant and unimproved.
He is a prayer
so full of gratitude as to move
any god to grace.
Like him, I will sup on sugar and drink dry this place
of every flame and flower.
Tell me, what else would you have me do
with these gifted hours? Deny?
Tell me, when it's over, will you have loved
your bread and water life?
For Corey's prompt at Real Toads