Someone threw white gravy
on my car during the night.
Gravy flinger, would your god get my god?
My god is so big and so busy
you can hide a unicycle in the corner of his eye
and every time I remind him through prayer
that I want my unicycle back
his thicker subflesh
cringes at the suggestion
and seismic activity is reported
down in the Galapagos
while some marketing idiot
gets to name another epic blizzard
that white people will use as a reason
to cross-country ski through
no-way neighborhoods in Baltimore
buried so inactive and deep the whole block hears
the wish-wishing of locomoting strangers.
So, gravy flinger, would your god
and my god get on just fine
considering their perspectives
is all they have but maybe,
like scientist lovers studying,
they’ll press us between lenses,
the complete range of their agreeing nods
too complex for the full-length mirrors of humans.