I held your hand
as you sighed,
caving and rising,
that old cadence, that old chestnut rag.
“God is a bastard, a true SOB,”
I told you, patting at the sweat breaking beads on your brow.
“Your mother won’t tell me about it,
because vows and such.”
But I can see it,
in the way he moves around the yard,
listlessly mowing, not really into it,
always bitching about how
‘David made the whole thing up’, and
something about boning an asshole,
or… whatever. Maybe a flaming sword,
swung round and round by another drunken angel
outside the garden,
just another ineffectual scarecrow
flapping in the wind.
He says the afterlife’s kind of a let-down,
that the mowing’s at least more interesting
than the harping.
And that he’d love to help.
but I know he’s a liar – and a drunk.
Did you know he forced his kid to make him _wine_?
I kind of miss you.
But it’s good, that you figured out a path.
Just… kick Peter’s ass for me.
He’s earned it.
And it’s good, as well, to know,
that love is the dominion of the dead.