Not a participation trophy fan, still, I believe in praise–fair props.
Praise the days, praise the nights, praise the accident that is us,
Our planet, our time, our space, our separate solitary worlds,
together and apart, unable to perceive reality let alone truth,
less a word than a gurgling gut full of sense and the sensible.
We commend, we lionize, we sing songs to the laudable, those
who earn their accolades in tributes, panegyrics and eulogies.
But who among us have not suffered the humiliating red ribbon
Or the diagnosis despite healthy choices, good living, and grace?
Bits of luck, shame, misfortune, health and love–praise chaos.
Through the singeing piss soaked stain of soiled panties, sobbing,
Sitting beside the third grade boy crush and plum of my notice,
Shame burns indelibly, but the blush of recognition, heart-pump pride
in mastering a job well done, earned in doubt and fear, curtained hope,
A+, raise, high 5, and fist bump, all winking nod to gratitude’s birthright.