Inheritance

God is remiss. His hands are clumsy,
dry, withered, liver-splotched
skin pulled tight over bird-thin bones.

Those hands grasp, the fingers pluck,
rough, dry, yellow-nailed,
feel the pulse pinch in his palm, flighty.

He makes the shape of a gun with his hand
and smiles, apologetic. He cannot point the way.
His fingers crook.

God is Rasputin with tired eyes.
He hunches his back and the metal walker
before Him catches on a crack: time stops, tilts, resumes.

Time has weathered His face.
There is history etched in those wrinkles;
the way the corners of his mouth turn up,

chafed and torn, when he smiles.
They crinkle parchment paper thin, yellow,
all words worn away.

Old Man, go fishing. Your children –
as all children must – will bear the burden.
Let the world pass to the meek.