God

God put us on this earth to recycle paper.

We pass it around till the world turns to vapor.

God put us on this earth to understand trees.

We split them so we could inspect them with ease.

God told us, "Call this number to book an appointment." 

The pre-recorded message told us we were a disappointment. 

God makes less sense as each day goes by.

"Take two before bed," He screams, "lest you should die."

God needs a breather, He's got burnout, we think. 

Let's help Him relax, take Him out for a drink.

God shrugged us off and muttered swear words at us.

There's no call for that, Lord. You don't need to cuss.

He thinks we're the Amazon delivery guy.

We don't have any money or anything to buy. 

But God doesn't listen, because God's gone away. 

We have no idea what those glassy eyes say. 

So we search through His papers, bound up in old files.

We thought it would be easy, but there were piles and piles. 

His correspondences dating back hundreds of years 

(Which seemed a low number) with relatives and peers. 

But we didn't find anything and so we returned 

To find in our absence our house had been burned

To the ground with a message writ large in the dirt: 

"That's what you get, you—" then some unprintable words. 

We called the police but he never was found.

So we had a mock funeral and put a box in the ground 

That had nothing inside it except violence and sound. 

Then we dusted our hands and went out for a beer. 

We found Him there tending the bar. In sheer 

Disbelief and anxiety, He made a run for the door. 

He shouted expletives while we wrestled Him to the floor.

But He slipped through our clutches and sprinted away.

He's out there; we know it. And maybe, some day, 

When He's made some mistakes, had some learning experiences, 

He'll learn to look past our initial appearances 

And give us a chance to be with Him again. 

It would be nice to invite Him for dinner and then

We could look back and laugh at this together, and cry. 

Then we'd call the police. He has a DUI.