God throws a bag of gold in your path,
but you step around it because it’s in the way.
You’re focused on the guava tree
around the bend, and that’s all you see,
or the princess—the pretty one—
or the goose that lays golden eggs—
so she says.
The wand. Don’t forget the wand.
What you choose is a problem.
The bigger problem is what you can.
You wake up.
Coffee, cereal, maybe an egg
once or twice a week.
You wash up, get in the car,
do what they tell you.
But what do you think about?
The goose? The princess?
The problem is the possible.
Even the wand won’t change that.
A woman drives to the chocolate factory,
puts on her gloves, and sorts good from bad.
A salesman eyeballs the couple looking at a car.
Should he pitch them high or low?
What you can choose is the problem.
There is a river whose streams make glad
the city of God. God is in the midst of her.
She shall not be moved.
But what if she wants to?
Maybe the water goes bad,
or the neighboring tribe grows
hostile and vast as locusts.
She can go left, right, up or down.
Maybe she goes in. Deep inside.
You’ve gone in.
You’re standing before the mirror.
You’ve taken home the goose.
You’ve wooed the princess.
You’ve got the bag of gold.
Yet you’re thinking,
The wand. What about the wand?
—first published in The Pinch