Is God more God at noon
Man with neck-beard, plump,
Sits alone at lunch
Pretending to read a newspaper so
No one thinks he’s lonely.
All I know is I’m just a person
With acute desire
For tea on this cloudy morning.
The steam warms my face, clearing
My dry and cracked memories.
After reading an inscription: who
Made my desk in Guatemala?
Does sawdust cloud the factory air?
Does the Maker get splinters often?
Does he have two little boys in a corrugated tin shanty?
Yes. They stare up at him with wide brown eyes. Yes;
They invent games with trash.
I’ve never felt a Canadian winter but
I hear it’s like tyranny.
I think tyranny is a good thing
To dabble in.
But my twin bed is more comfortable:
Enveloped in blankets,
A body pillow my companion.
I want my writing to rival
The experience of being alive, but
I don’t know how to do that without discussing
Stepping on freshly chewed gum.
No matter how thoroughly I scour my shower
It still smells like—dorm shower. I wish I could grow
A flower garden in my bathroom. Certainly someone,
Somewhere, has tried.
A withered, bare-chested old man is clouded by
He leans over with a pitcher
And smells jasmine, the humidity of the bathroom
Warming his face.
I saw it coming.
In the end a Couple will stare
Into the familiar set of
Soft hazel eyes, and say I do.
For the Rest the end will scour,
Like the raw skin of a scrape before it starts to bleed,
Like shattered teeth.