Conversations with God
"But when I die,"
I began, nervous,
undecided about going on.
"When I die, will it..."
"Hurt?" she asked,
a faint glint
of grin, at first,
that later stretches
to a face cracking smile.
"Yes. I suppose
that's what I'm asking."
God looks at me,
flutters her skirts
about her porcelain skin,
does a slight pirouette
about my trembling body.
"Will it hurt?" she says,
laughing this time.
"Just a hint will do,"
I say, not sure
I really want to know.
She looks to the blue
sky above, raises
a long thin hand,
points to a puff of cloud.
"I think you'll do just fine,"
she says as a finger freezes
to the cloud and points
it off to the left
just a little.
"There," she says,
turning back to offer
a supercilious smile.
"That cloud was gnawing
on my sense of symmetry."
I am left with nothing
but a notion, less
than what I started with.
"But. But. But I want to know..."
She begins to walk away,
"It is mine to know,
young man. Yours
to unravel
when the time comes."
I consider a sort of plea,
but decide there is no
begging God.
"Just live. Just
do what you do."
She waves as she prepares
to disappear.
"Oh!" she says.
"Yes? What? What is it?"
"Please. Keep your pretty eyes
on the buses
as they pass you by.
You know. Just in case."