Just as you never tell your children
which of them is your favorite
(they all are, right?),

you don’t reveal to the people sitting
around the table, writing their
art out,

that they’re your dream team,
the ones you want around the table
in heaven,

if there is a heaven. And there
damn well better be because I
want to land in a loft like this

with the just-right temperature
so I don’t have to adjust the A/C
on a summer morning

(oops, too cool… nope, too stuffy),
pulling out the space heaters,
layering up in winter.

Let there be no too cold or too hot
around the celestial writing table,
and let me write

there with the dream team,
unabashedly, among my favorite
writers and humans.

Lucky me to have fallen into
this place, this occupation,
these people quite accidentally.

Or is that how you made it appear,
you crafty word gods?
The ones who placed pens

in our hands, poised our
fingers over keyboards,
whispering, Go!

And we do,
oh, we so do.