There are bottles on the floor but it's best to drink
with low center of gravity right now and
what's lower than the floor?
And it might be floor level
but it levels the playing field and I feel
like I can rush the players and
play right into the hands of my angry god.
My angry god has dreadlocks and smokes;
Don't ask me if it's ****--he's never shared.
My angry god wears button-down shirts,
the Hawaiian kind.
He drapes the shirts over his bony, lanky body
My angry god forgives me for the things I
don't remember doing, and laughs at the things
I do.
My angry god picks up the floor bottles and
tells me I can turn them into glasses
"recycle, reuse," he tells me
And I tell him the cycle of use repeats
and my feet shuffle close to him, wanting
to pat his shoulders but he's shouldered
my responsibilities and I can't add weight
so wait--
My angry god's hands are smudged with
dirt and ink and oil
like the prodigal poet, the blue collar lyricist
and he tells me not to worry
He tells me it doesn't matter
He tells me he's proud of me
And I don't have to prove myself to him
My angry god grabs my bottles and he
levels them
Emptying the playing field
"Sleep easy," he says
He tucks me in.