God is everywhere, they say, so why not

kissing the dice in your hands,

arm around your neck, guiding the fall

of a grown man in a feather boa

just enough that he avoids a fractured pelvis,

taking the wheel or the traffic light

so your commute is that much easier. I mean,

you deserve it, you dropped a nickel in the basket

& God remembers. His mind is like a bear trap,

which is why He tips the neck of his beer a tad

before drinking it, setting it on the coaster,

which is really a miniature cloud,

as He kicks back & digs a thumb in his arch,

maybe even swears when the angels can’t hear Him.

They’re always thundering in & asking

when He’ll get back out there

—the brave ones, the ones with nerve.

When trying to fall asleep, I like to imagine Him

catching up on paperwork. I remember that

I, too, am a father—36 trillion cells

capable of what seems like an infinite amount

of worry, painfully aware that I can’t control everything,

which I guess is why I pray, why I look tired

in so many photographs. Love does that.

Sacrifice. Being everywhere all at once

must be exhausting. I imagine even ethereal

beings have limits, which might explain why

every time God catches praise,

there’s a bullet going so fast, He misses it.