Why I Believe in Darwin

Ron Yazinski

For no apparent reason the thought occurred to me
That prostitutes should be called
“Joywrights” or “blissmiths.”
That’s the kind of verbal insight that is uncalled for,
Now that my teaching days are over;
The kind of thinking that should’ve been rewarded with a tip
In a tip jar on my desk,
Like that of a guitar poet in a dingy club,
Giving me some kind of feedback that what I was doing was appreciated.



I was in the middle of an eight hour drive,
And my thoughts were like bumper cars in an old amusement park.
There’s only so much mileage to be had from remembering
St. Michael is the patron saint of the truck drivers who passed me by,
The guys whose mud flaps bear the outlines of pagan fertility goddesses.
Which, in turn, probably set off the shenanigans about prostitutes.



But then the coupling of St. Michael and females,
Reminded me of a day trip I once went on in fourth grade.
The nuns took us to Rocky Glen Amusement Park.



This was so long ago that such things seemed reasonable,
Before lawyers walked the earth.
Most of my classmates ran to the great wooden roller coaster,

Crammed themselves in, two or three to a seat,
And screeched in terrified delight, as they were slowly tugged up the first steep hill,
And then plummeted around the measured track, screaming in horror,
But knowing they were ultimately safe and that the end of the ride was predictable.
Ever since, they have believed in Intelligent Design.

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On the other hand, I loved the bumper cars,
With their brightly painted hoods of hawks and snakes,
The thrill of chaos, the slamming of vehicles, the chance for individual revenge,
And when the ride was over, the cars were strewn around the track
In no discernible pattern.
There was no winner, no loser, only expended energy.
Thus I accept Darwin,
Though how the words “joywright” or “blissmith” enhance my survival,
I haven’t a clue.