 |
| Photo credit: lucasmalta from morguefile.com |
he’d done it, he’d made his God.
He had a beer in the backyard to celebrate,
wiping the sweat from his brow,
looking up at the stars that he knew his God hadn’t made.
But that didn’t matter, his God was pretty much
about as perfect as he could make him.
Though there were disappointments.
His God spoke with a silly high pitched voice,
almost a falsetto,
instead of the rich, booming, shake ’em in their boots
voice he’d intended.
Also, his God was pretty slack in the miracles department.
He never really got around to actually doing anything.
And there were still wars and pestilence and plagues.
But then again, they seemed to happen
no matter whose God was pulling the reins.
He was a trifle clumsy, and if people gazed upon him at the supermarket
they tended to stare rudely, not fall down prostrate with awe.
They stared as if someone had just trudged in dog’s mess.
His God could be a bit crass at times,
an embarrassment in front of the opposite sex,
burping, boasting, cracking sick jokes,
gawking at bums and breasts.
He had his good side though.
He didn’t put black clouds of conscience in the man’s head.
His idea of hell was a barbecue ruined by rain.
He was nice to have around, though a bit distracted at times.
But he kept his creator company
on all those nights when they snored in front of the TV.
His God wasn’t much of a God, let’s face it.
But he was his.
And they grew old together.
The man and his God.
They grew feeble and his God forgot to do those things
that Gods are supposed to do at the end of life’s strange journey.
The man died.
His God looked down on him,
thought I’ll be damned!
And died too.
~ Bill Fewer
No comments:
Post a Comment