The hermit's prayer

 
I want to think easily;
to have thoughts
wander into my mind
like vagrants who stay
 
only briefly before they  
go on to better hand-
outs (they won't find  
much here). I want
 
thoughts who are light  
travelers with shallow
footprints and who leave
only their smiles and take
 
their waste with them.
Don't bring your weighty
complexities with their dark
moods and solemn faces
and thin sour lips twisted
 
downwards. I don't want
to know about your idiotic
elections and fearful out-
comes. Don't tell me of the
 
54 who died in the underpass
the overpass or the passover.
What, you can't spare 54 from
eight billion? Christ you are a
 
tight bastard who has to push  
his begging bowl in my face  
till my teeth bleed. Alright
here's an eye tooth, now go.
 
At least in the old days by the
time I got the news the dead
were buried and their graves  
grassed and the flowers growing.
 
To hell with all that and to hell  
with the world's problems. I  
want to sleep, not sleep on it.