I drove a million miles to find home today, newborn spring sizzling the skyline pink.
I found God, a muraled man, white braids, brown hat. He didn’t shine, but behind him, a blue sun burned like it meant business.
I told him, “I’ll be looking for love in all the wrong places every night, hanging out across the street, eating lemon cake, drinking coffee, watching you do your thing. It’s a shot in the dark, but what’s a girl supposed to do?”
“Spring forward, fall back,” he proclaimed. The words seemed to have a deeper meaning, cartwheeling from his tongue.
“I’m not dumb, but I don’t get it,” I whispered, wishing I spoke fluent God.
He smiled, or tried, but bits of bird wing and clotted paint kept him from moving his eyes. The grin didn’t even touch his teeth.
I asked him if he liked my heart. He said it smelled like rain. A train trundled by, or a trolley. It was hard to tell in the dark. He handed me a wad of cash, said, “Wait for your miracle. I’m trying.”
My heart banged against my ribs, a crazed rat in a cage. I wandered past a drunken frog. It didn’t want to talk.
(God told me that I should let you lead. Step slowly. I can’t even see your feet.)
I eat my weight in snickerdoodles
leave you flowers on the sidewalk
seven shreds of butterfly wing
buckets of acid rain
three strands of graying hair
two bolts of rusty lightning
a wad of gently used gum.
purple graffiti that says your name
so close to God’s toes, he’d kick it
if he wasn’t frozen like that
his feet buried deep in asphalt.
I showed up.
God tried to smile.
I rest my head on the tip of His oil paint thumb