The Fury of God's Good-bye
One day He
tipped His top hat
and walked
out of the room,
ending the argument.
He stomped off
saying:
'I don’t give guarantees’.
I was left
quite alone
using up the darkness.
I rolled up
my sweater,
up into a ball,
and took it
to bed with me,
a kind of stand—in
for God,
what washerwoman
who walks out
when you’re clean
but not ironed.
When I woke up
the sweater
had turned to
bricks of gold.
I’d won the world
but like a
forsaken explorer,
I’d lost
my map.
