God is a pea stuck in my throat.
Count the toddlers who swallow
peas. Kiddos know better. My
allergies flare up from walks.
Trees. A kiddo screams. Panic
comes from air. God is in strollers
everywhere. Panic is an uncut shrub
blocking a picture window. God is me
not getting it. A kid who tests the cross
walk, to hell with the Don’t Walk
sign. God makes me notice the wet
design of the squashed possum
on the way to your place. You are
sick of the fits of no sleep. I am
weary of your spoon, your cereal
so soggy. We need to go now. Go
if we’re going to go. We need milk
to be skin. Be skinned now. Tomorrow
I will rake. I am pretty sure. Your place,
mine. Loan me a rake. God is the milk
film and leaf slime, moldy birdseed,
the wishes and dung we bag and count
and bag and bag and bag.