Our god was a mean god.

Put whiskey in his tea.

Didn't work nights.

 

His bed was the sky.

Mornings he'd lay there hours,

twisted in its sheets.

Friday night, he sat on the edge of it.

 

You're no use to me lying here.

No use at all.

 

The bed said nothing.

God stood up and walked across the room.

 

"It's a joke," he said,

rummaging through dresser drawers,

"a fucking joke."

The phone rang downstairs. Once, twice-

God tripped over a pair of shoes.

 

And still the sky said nothing.

 

"Who do you think you are anyways?

You just sit there - watching me.

You're like some old painting."

He laughed.

"You should be on a wall,

you fucking piece of work.

I could put you right there."

 

The room was silent.

God's stomach made a noise.

 

He looked at the bed, the sky.

He walked over, and peeled a corner a corner back,

Pulled hard, balled the sheets into his fist.

"Grimey"

 

Five minutes later, he'd hung them

and was batting all across with his walking stick.

Thunder roared around them.

 

"This is better," he said.

"This is better."