Plainclothes

56AC1502-4490-4A4D-B65D-2191EEE55FED

 

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.

Advertisements
This entry was posted in Poems and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s