'Till You Leave

Before each morning
God turns over in bed and gets called in
to work at some ungodly hour before the sun scratches
herself to poptarts and shower-coffee

"Eternally," God cries, "the salad tongs
manage to un-clip themselves precisely before the brunch-time rush!"
and then, God
sighs
Forever and Ever.

Meanwhile, you providently
complain, until your buck-fifty raise,
of hugs being too expensive,

'cause you needed a soft December once,
but December rushed off, like an asshole,
to meet fireplace-snug February in front of some impossible hearth
to fervor on the floor and
forget,

but,
it wasn't 'till morning
it wasn't 'till 
anything

-JV