Prime-time TV Programming

and the public school textbook

with the chapter on evolution, praising

that darling of the Devil, Charles Darwin

and the pool hall on the school night

and the teenagers painting their

faces a frightening green,

clamoring for the spotlight,

unclean hands feeling for the

center of an unclean stage.

And behold, I am sent to destroy the children.

The children.  Who can blame them when their

grandmothers are peeling off price tags,

slipping press-on nails into purses?

Who can blame them when

the man is at the bar again tonight
concerning himself only with pleasure 
and the continuation of pleasure?

And the woman on the couch fantasizes;

she views her full-color self 

in a lacy evening gown,
pearls hanging around her neck, 
a handgun strapped to her right thigh.
She shifts her eyes this way, that way.
It's part soap opera, part spy thriller,
a major box-office hit, all about her.

And yet, in this house,

when the heads bow down,

when her mouth offers prayer,

a warm light spreads.

Smiles are given, kind looks received,

the plate of steaming bread passes

from humble hand to humble hand,

and I, an angel of destruction, plead with God,

spare them all a little longer.