A Questioning

God steps on a broken bottle between bricks in a tight alley curses—lights a cigarette leans against blood-red-blocks and plucks translucent shards from his sole.

Does the grass sob when the suns sets, or does the sun set when the grass sobs? The ground is wet where the small cat walks, stalks; her incisors rip the rat into a Pollock painting.

He casts a glazed eye to cruelty as drip drops of rose fall from his toes. He sheds a pitiful eye on the rat, its fur matted into the pavement: concrete carpet. He directs an understanding eye to the cat,

she licks her paws, washes her small face: spick and span.

He breathes the smoke, coats His lungs exhaling into His query: “What have I done?”

#20182019 #Poetry

© 2023 by MCLA Spires.