God comes back from the break room
still wearing His robe and bunny slippers,
jowls covered in five-day-stubble.
He looks like Hell.
This was supposed to be easier than it is
and that’s a theme He’s
not above turning into a motif.
He puts his coffee on his desk, adding a splash of
He’s working in alphabetical order:
the Aardvark was efficient; the Ant, sublime;
the Ape even bordered on genius.
But the Ass signalled a loss of dignity;
the Bear, addicted to Doritos;
and the Bee was the equivalent
of a suicide bomber, teaching
the Taliban how to Taliban.
By the time He reached Camel
the one hump/two hump thing was pure sloppiness.
He now picks up a new form, jots Caribou,
scrawls some barely legible calligraphy
in the description section, like it’s a prescription pad,
and hands it to the angel behind him.
Upon review, the angel asks, “Excuse me, sir,
but would it be polite, sir, if not proper even,
to equip them with wings; to aid in their spectacle of movement?”
“Well fuck Me, Wallace!” God replies. “We’re
not made of money. And I’ve already hatched the fowl.”
(Birds are a sore subject as He’s been pooped on by seagulls twice now.)
“Of course, sir. Very good, sir. And sir, should I file them under
Cattle, Beast, or Creeping Thing?”
God snatches the paper back, His pen
twitching between the “Check only ONE” boxes,
muttering to Himself, “Goddammit.
I’m not even gonna give a shit by the time it gets to Zebra.”