Tuesday, September 1, 2015


When I cannot write I grow cranky
So it was a relief when, towards
The FedEx driver brought me a large box
From the muse I hadn't seen for weeks.
It was mostly empty but God was in a corner.
I was nonplussed. I am not a religious poet
Despite the gods and saints and demons
Who populate my poems. Still, I do not court peril;
Muses are not to be ignored. God said nothing
But did not seem discontent.

                                                 In late August
The City empties. Baba Yaga was almost alone
Eating cherry pirogis in a
Third Avenue dairy restaurant
Which closed in 1964. She waved me over.
I ordered borscht, a thing I cannot eat
In any other place. "The Muse has sent me God
In a box," I told her. She nodded, nothing
Surprises Baba Yaga. "What sort of box?"
"Large. Cardboard. No foam peanuts. Just God
Sitting in a corner."
                                                "He doesn't look angry."
"Not him; you."
                             "More puzzled. Why would the Muse
Send me God in a box?"
                                                "So you would let Him out
Of course."
                         "My father saw God, you know."
"Yes, you've written about it, more than once."
"You read my blog?"
                                        "From time to time.
Your father did not put God in a box.
But you do. Roust Him out, is my advice.
You limp already, what more do you think He'll do to you?"
"Turn me upside down? Invite worship? Kill me?"
"Pfoo; he killed you when you were born.
And look how that’s turned out for you!
Go home, boy; be polite. Make some tea
I have business to attend but I'll stop by later
And see how the two of you are doing."

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