Walking past a donut shop,
I see God, a plainclothes cop
Sipping coffee, much too hot
Damning the devil to hell again.
Smeared on his mustache,
Chocolate crème from a
Freshly-baked eclair.
He switched off the babbling,
Crying walkie-talkie.
There was a robbery downtown,
But he is in this cafe
Working in mysterious ways.
Perhaps he isn’t
Omnipresent. He looks
As if he could be a small boy
In extra-large, extra plain clothes.
Maybe he isn’t divine,
But a plainpope
Taking a break from saving our souls
With some jelly donuts
And mediocre jazz music in the background.
The biggest miracle of all
Is a heavily pastry bite
Dribbling down his chin.
White Girl Poetry 