It’s all just crap
complete dirt and crud
encrusted on slush
what’s left behind from
a dreary winter
forcing me to dodge
jump over wade through
yet another season
of disaster and
i just want to yell
“this is not my mess”
but who really cares to hear
because everyone is
wading through the same
muck
and we’re all less concerned
about helping each other
more concerned with
keeping our shoes clean
and there goes God —
happy as a lark in the mess
like those mounds of
never-disappearing-til-summer
salt-infused snow and ice
are the prettiest thing
since the platypus
which is an ugly creature
but we’re all just polite and we tell
God that the platypus is the
most creative assembling of a mammal
ever
though it’s a lie but sometimes
you lie to God to let God save face
so in these in-between seasons
of ugly muck and impatience
while waiting for something
new to happen
yesterday preferably
we wade through the slush
and we risk twisted-ankles on crusty ice
because God thinks that wading
is just the most poetic path
to salvation — and we all know better
but we don’t tell
God.