God Wears a Cardigan
From a mahogany desk in heaven, God
spins the earth (a quaint bookend/paperweight);
his finger
lands on fall. While people are worrying
about how they will eat and
what books they must read, I am only
concerned about finding
the ideal cardigan:
six buttons, cotton or wool, a color
that accentuates my Anglo features
(in case you're wondering).
Something that disappears in a
maelstrom of leaves. I want to be
naked like birth.
Because
I plan on sitting on my porch,
calm and crapulent,
contemplative and brain dead.
I don't want to look uncouth
in the process.
Back in heaven, God wears
a cardigan, too--
the last three buttons undone on Fridays.
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