Where is God when I need Her? Him?
My fault, I don’t believe in one or another.
I wish I could say: “You god-damned God, You.”
Were that I could. Or should.
But I can’t,
and I can’t remember who wrote this pitiful and trite ending
to an old love story,
older than time itself,
regurgitated and amputated
on the broken back of the Thinker,
cleaning out Hercules’ stable,
my last task,
I wish I could raise a fist to Heaven itself, instead
I walk down the stairs this morning.
I would have
thought I could have written myself out of this story
by now and had a proper ending,
fresh loam in my hair, worms in my eyes.