how did you treat god
you didn’t find him in the cathedral
or in the careful mouths of men
who polished their sins
like silverware
no—
you found him
in the ashtray
overflowing,
in the rent notice
taped crooked to the door,
in the last swallow
of something cheap
that burned going down
and you asked—
not kindly—
how did you treat me?
because if there was a god
he wasn’t up there counting halos
he was down here
getting his teeth kicked in
wearing your name
like a bad suit
you saw him
in the woman crying at 2 a.m.
in the man who laughed too loud
because silence was worse
in the stray dog
that wouldn’t stop following you
and still
you stepped over him
again
and again
you said
life is hard
you said
I didn’t make it this way
but you made your small part of it
you sharpened your edges
you chose where to look away
and now
the question hangs
like smoke that won’t leave the room:
how did you treat god?
did you give him a seat
or did you let him stand
out in the rain
with the rest of the broken things
be honest—
he’s still out there
waiting
and he doesn’t look anything
like what they told you.
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