God at the Bus Stop

Greg Dennis


I saw God the other day
When I was waiting for the bus
To go downtown.
He told me that he had had enough
And that he was leaving town.
I told him it sounded
Like a good idea,
That I would if I could
But I had too much holding me down.
He told me
I had to have faith.
That it was somewhere here before;
He could almost remember it.
It had been a year or so ago
Or maybe a thousand,
But it was, in fact, here.
Now, faith exists as pocket books
And newspapers, and politicians' lies.
And manipulated stories and alibis.
And when things get real bad
To hell with praying,
One just needs to close his eyes.
And hope like hell
That someone or something
Will come and save them and their money.
Anything at all
But not me, he said, no, not me.
And as the bus came
And the breaks squealed
I didn't feel healed.
He shrugged and said, half-heartedly,
That I just had to have some faith
And that was the only thing
He could tell me.
But not to bother to try to spread this advice,
Because he had tried it before
And no one really seemed to care.
And with that I closed the door
Gave the driver some cash
And took off down 1st
And I knew I wouldn't see him anymore.

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