Guilt Litany

Have mercy, Lord
            on the old and ill,
clothed in what came, this day,
to hand, their buttons misaligned,
            their Velcro’d shoes;
on the fragile ones awaiting word—
the hospice call, eviction,
            a uniform at the door,
the biopsy, the ultrasound;
on men and women off their meds
            and on their own;
the restless in the wards, asleep
those without shelter, asleep
            in doorways or
            wandering the dark
pastures of the mind,
the exhausted, the embittered,
            the unloved;
            on the brutalized
children of brutalizing times;
on kids who cut themselves
            to watch the blood
well up that they might cry
for something they can see;
            on families in the camps—
their lack of firewood, the likelihood
of rape; on asylum seekers
            stopped at borders laced
with concertina wire, dogs,
surveillance drones; or trudging
            hostile borderlands,
holding their breath in the dark
until our headlights pass; 
            on those imprisoned for
misdeeds, missteps, mistakenness,
who trust their futures to our justice;
            on the poor we have
too rarely with us; and on the useless
well-to-do who read their newsfeeds,
            sign petitions, write
their litanies—lest they, lest I, believe
this paltry plea to be enough,
            have mercy, Lord.