It was a hard year and God and I
Were selling brooms, or trying to.
We slept in a hospital storeroom
Whose key I had inherited. Most
nights
The dreams patients had left
behind
Would drift in, sitting on the
floor
Or leaning against the
shelves
That reached to the high ceilings.
The very highest shelves
Had families of bats living on
them.
When they squeaked God
Would gesture and the card games
And storytelling would pause.
I never knew if He was getting
messages --
But what would bats know that God
didn’t? --
Or just enjoying the squeaks as
music
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