Everything that happens is sacred
Sure, sure, so the poets, philosophers, priests and popes say
Everything is sacred
Have they ever, I wonder, shit in their pants while in the grocery store
Because their bowels don’t know that only the toilet is sacred to them
Have they ever lost their temper and screamed at their sister over the phone
Because their anger doesn’t know that only self-control is sacred
Have they ever had to look at the chewing tobacco spit out on the sidewalk
Because the old man doesn’t know that, well, that chewing tobacco is never sacred
Unless lung cancer and COPD are sacred

But washing out my mother’s soiled underwear
That I feel is sacred
Getting angry at injustice, at deliberate ignorance, cultivated and cherished
That I feel is sacred
Caring for that lonely old man, even though he stinks of tobacco
Even though you hate his smell and his beliefs and his unknowing arrogance
Just because he is himself
That I feel is sacred

Do you agree, God?
Or can you see the sacred in my own dirty underwear
In my embarrassment
Can you see the sacred in my unwise anger
In my estrangement
In my temper
Can you see the sacred in that heap of sodden chaw
In over-plowed fields
In feeding lots
In caged children

Is there a divine powerful enough to help me see the sacred 
in the ordinary
in the profane