My
eyes adjust to the dusty light
Slanting
its way in. It's late August;
Time
stands behind the bar, fiddling
With
the strings of his apron. God
Is
at a table, drinking with his friends.
There
are peanut shells beneath His feet
The
ceiling fan whirrs softly under a ceiling
Of
pressed tin. The waitresses' wings are draggled
And
smell faintly of beer. I am amazed
To
find God still where I left Him
In
1976. I might tell Him that Heaven
Has
cut loose from its mooring and sailed
No
man can say where or that those angels
Who
don't work in bars are mostly unemployed
Passing
even the warmest nights huddled
Around
fires burning in wire barrels
But
I simply sit in the chair that has
Has
left empty for me all this while.
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