Someone
got into the special paints this morning.
(The ones kept on top of the fridge, behind the cereal and last week’s mail)
Stood on tippy-toes and
stretched her hand
up up up
til
she was impossibly tall.
As guilty fingers touched eternity – teetered, overbalanced –
light splattered
across the kitchen floor.
Everyone knows who did it;
The Creator’s fingertips are still stained
gold.
It seems while I was away
God took up a new hobby
leaving love letters I read while driving to work.
(Perhaps if I look under the bed, I’ll find a shoebox filled with them
and be shocked that He’s been doing it for years.
What a conversation that would be!)
I guess He was secretly spying on me
that time I sat on a bench in MOMA
captivated by iridescence.
So the Creator asked Monet to teach Him how to paint a sunrise.
I think He’s feeling quite pleased with His technique.
On Afternoons and Coffeespoons 