Before you know it, God is having coffee in an organic
Delaware restaurant. He starts to stare.
Four angels approach. A tail wing
has broken off one angel after flying to Tahiti.
Just trying to save lives the hurt one says. A kink
lumbers in his throat. God crumples then straightens the calm
newspaper in his palms, reads about voodoo
parents smearing honey on their boy’s face in Iraq.
Ridiculous. They wanted to photograph a bear licking Sonnyboy’s
trembling cheeks. God sighs. And now you
vixens want me to mend a wing in this raw
x-rated winter. I haven’t read the obituaries yet and you say
Zowie, I need help. First, let me finish my ricotta.
Boys, I need a break. One of you can be the heroic
daredevil and do this job. You’ll love it. You’ll navigate
fools into wizards and coagulate a song,
high-pitched, into perjury then truth. I
juke and jive with infinity then unwind a kink
lurking in the past. It’s someone else’s turn to squirm.
Not enough valium on the planet or ouzo to
plop me into this job again and not enough tranq
racing through my veins. He breathes,
twists the caffeinated air into his lungs, does a jujitsu
vault with his tongue, gnaws on a marshmallow.
X your name right here, boys. This is your day.
Zephyr winds are calling to end the drought in Montana.