God was wearing a pair of faded
blue jeans and a soiled
tee-shirt, screaming
at the blackbirds and smoke
exhaust in the dead
language of some unknown tongue.
And the steaming
rage of the place was running
down his brow
and into his eyes as if the world
had wrung itself through his
body, the ground
that he stood on, and his
battered self-will.
And in one of those rare moments
when First Cause
or The Infinite accidentally
connects
(when a stop light brings you
face to face), you’d
swear that this could be your own
father
and that for one instance (while
you both share
the
same sky), you could be his only son.
