We’ve been together all night

and God on the ferry, in black,

acts the ass, embarrasses himself,

brags he can end us and all sapiens

in an instant, all sparrows, too.

He wouldn’t dare dish this shit

if his sister, the Holy Spirit, were here

to twist his ear, and Mike in a glorious

gesture of prick-bravado

reaches over and gives God enough

of a shove He trips, topples

right into the sound.

The splash kicks up as the ferry

powers past. We know we’re in for it.

We also know no real harm done

to someone named Almighty.

He’ll flash Old Testament furious

and we’ll take our lumps.

Off the ferry, Mike and I park downtown

and sit in the back of the pick-up

and wait for God

and out of a side alley

he runs, through traffic, right at us.

In an embrace of the inevitable

and simply dicking around, we clown

and wave and yell, “Hey, God, over here.”

He’s soaked and pissed

and never has a moment been more precious.

We climb out of the truck,

hug him, say sorry, and ask

if he’s OK. Though he’s mad

like he needs to teach us a good lesson

in the Chain of Being

he’ still charmed by our high-spirits

and hi-jinks. But we are contrite,

pushing anyone off a moving ferry

is wrong, regardless of how omniscient

he might be. We bow and close

our eyes so he can talk to us

inside our heads, then I get the ratty

army blanket from behind the seat

and help God from his sopping shirt,

pants, lace boxers, socks like sea slime,

down to the flesh none can see

and say the same way. I see mirror.

What the dark moon sees. Myself

in negative. I see a passage

and down the passage a child

on the other side of the world,

her bright face the size

of a quarter. I look

to his sad, waterlogged feet, wrinkled

old as though pickled and we

wrap him snug and all sit

in the back of the pick-up

in the warm peach of a morning sun,

smoke cigarettes, drink coffee and sing

slow and deep, Swing Low Sweet Chariot.

- John C. Morrison