Low Heaven

In not wanting to have their eyes pennied,
And/or a bone shown broken to the open air,
They're praying for their lucky stars to shoot.

And we are such gluttons.
For the generous threat of being supreme being safed
Or susceptible.

Subject to a man-mold maker with a tendency toward the more dramatic side of everything we are.

Flattered, I'm sure.
And what does modern child mistakenly chalk up
To the humongous, homogeneous wind-column of God?

The swapping of a dead pet for a fresh one?
Find someone else's wallet?
Or,
Per se,
A snow day?