reads comics, sips coffee.
The God you want has callous-thick
feet, grit-black fingernails,

breath that stinks of garlic & coffee.
He waters his backyard, though restrictions
say it’s an off day. Only tips

15%. Only buys premium gas.
A red Cherokee bloats his unedged
driveway & sometimes weeks pass

Before he mows his grass (or has
someone do it for him, lazy bum).
The God you want doesn’t think

of you very often, & when he does,
he snickers at your prayers, tiny
bearings rolling in black hole ears.

His email box swells. His answering
machine beeps, echoing in his tiny house.