Moving to Connecticut

The dead men look like dead men.
Let’s you and me think about this
for one minute. The dead
men look exactly like they’re supposed to.
Mouths open, teeth white
as dried milk. God as I understand God
sits in dirt, legs crossed, shotgun tight
against his shoulder. What a rare vandalism.
God as I understand God doesn’t like
crayons. The large box, sixty-four count,
never has the one he’s looking for.
Stand up now and take a bow.
Shake your friend’s hand. Consider
what you know about anything
besides your own fingernails.
Start crying when your friend says
how proud he is of your decade sober,
how he wanted the same for his son.
End scene. Exit stage left.
This play doesn’t have dead men
so the dead men don’t look like
themselves or anybody else
for that matter. It’s opening night.
God as I understand God sits
in the front row. I peel skin
and skin from my palm for good luck.
Later I walk into someone
else’s home and spend the night
on a mat in the kitchen.