The Voice Issue 30: July/August 2017 - Page 33

33

God

I saw a man once getting out of bed, pulling back his rumpled covers and dragging himself into the bathroom, stepping into the shower of his one- bedroom apartment.

Imagine his childhood tub with water beaded on its yellow-stained sides.

He showers quickly, lathering his balding hair with watermelon shampoo.

Turning the water off, he dodges the last ice-cold drips and wraps a towel around his middle.

Wiping the fog off of the mirror he flexes at it,

whispers,

I am God,

Then rubs away the droplets running down his legs with his towel,

blue terrycloth,

pulls on a fresh pair of boxers,

then his old suit.

He grabs a cup of coffee on his way out the door and boards the New York subway.

Every seat is taken so he stands and holds the yellow-painted rail.

The million other jostling riders seethe around him -

- pushing into him

- elbowing the soft parts of him,

not knowing he is god.

Because he isn't.

- xii2, Hanover, NH