My Tiny God

likes balance. He has me step in dog shit today
so I might catch an express train next week. He likes
how happy I am to earn it. How suffering to me is
like loading a gift card in karma’s outlet mall.

My Tiny God knows I like established paths, following
dotted lines to my destination. My Tiny God thinks
no one learns anything that way, turns off the headlights
when we’re still racing down a road.

Still, My Tiny God is the one I pray to on a rainy tarmac,
in the waiting room, on the other end of a static-filled line.
My Tiny God doesn’t always takes my calls. I don’t know
if he listens to my voicemails. Sometimes he goes missing.

I remind myself he doesn’t have to watch over me all the time.
He doesn’t need to carry his scale everywhere. He is allowed
to gets bored. He doesn’t have to watch me write for me to know
that he likes it when I’ve written, to see the paper pile up.

These days, My Tiny God clocks in every morning. Coffee,
our favorite miracle. Work, our favorite song. Faith, our lucky number.
He pours sunlight on me like syrup, fluffs every bright cloud,
smacks the birds from the trees just so I can watch them scatter.