PRAYERS ON THE TIN ROOF OF HEAVEN

prayers
are like rain
to god
so it's no wonder
he doesn't hear
many particulars
but just stands
at the window
listening to them
hit the roof
and watching them
puddle in the drive
and wash that part of the yard
where grass won't grow

and he wonders if the
roof is still leaking
and thinks he might
pull the ladder down
and check the attic
but, hell, he's so tired
and the rafters
will still be wet
with the want
and desperation
of 7.9 billion
some odd souls
if he checks them
in the morning

and god can't
remember
the last time
he saw the sun
and sometimes
it seems like
between the wars
and the fires
and the floods
and the hunger
and the roiling misery
and heartfelt desires
of almost a trillion desperadoes
it's never going
to clear up