the whole world in his hands

I look at my globe,
the one on my desk.
shiny in the overhead light,
metallic blue
with red lines,
black lines
going east and west,
north and south.
patches of green and brown,
so round, I spin it,
not unlike how God
does every morning
when he wakes up.
go ahead and laugh,
can you disprove this
notion. it's crazy,
I know.
but we're
so lucky to have air
and water,
coffee.
the New Yorker through
the mail
slot every two weeks.
the miracles
are endless.
I spin it faster,
with the thought that some
people might
fall off,
but no such luck.