To Someone Else’s God

First, the Big Bang, now all this, &
Between those stars sparkling

& exploding & all those cells mutating
& splitting & dying, I can’t seem to

Get any work done around here.
Those green mountains we hiked

Years ago now sit tiny & faded inside
A desert motel room’s painting, the

Highway outside cracked & freezing,
The bed shaking though no quarters

Have been inserted…or is that just me?
Someone might get hurt, you say,

Looking out the frosted, filthy window
& across creosote bush flatlands.

Way too late for that, I reply, staring
At a wall-bolted television, weather

Radar channel looping biblical rains
Lashing about the hinterlands, ponding

Upon my little league baseball field, filling
Those rusted buckets by the tool shed,

The one leaning towards our childhood
Pet cemetery – Beau, Sugarfoot, Ajax.

About Harold Whit Williams

William's first poetry collection, Waiting For The Fire To Go Out, is available from Finishing Line Press, and my poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Atlanta Review, Oxford American, Oklahoma Review, Slipstream, Tulane Review, and other fine journals. Also, in my spare time, I am lead guitarist for the critically acclaimed power-pop band Cotton Mather.


To Someone Else’s God — 1 Comment

  1. Enjoyed the imagery and use of words. And noticed that this being the time of global warming, I was overlaying that meaning onto the poem.

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