Having often read that if
You wish to find God in Rome
You must bring Him with you
I've set off. The whole way
He's complained. The shrine
I've set up in the back seat
Of my Honda Civic is not
Gaudy enough; my praisesong
Isn't sincere and I sing it
Off-key. To amuse Himself
He's created new sorts of creatures
Out of fire or ash or chicken-wire
Who cast multi-colored shadows
Or juggle in their sleep. After dying
They move to the glove compartment
To dwell among shredded maps
And insurance papers. To be fair, God
Has so far paid most of the tolls
And split the cost of gas with me.
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