I see God through greasy glass
or is that last week’s potato
I forgot—I am sick of potatoes
with their many staring eyes—
I prefer God to a potato most of the time
unless I haven’t eaten for days &
no feast hath been prepared at the table before me
which is most of the time since Sara left
in a bitter cloud of flying shoes, DVDs & fuck you’s
complaining my refrigerator looks like
a failed science experiment
stacks of newspapers cover the couch,
the chairs, the kitchen counters
complaining the cat rarely uses its litter box
preferring the bathmat or the carpet
or the sweaters in her closet
complaining I crunch potato chips in bed
leaving crumbs on her side
why is either side hers when I paid
for the humongous thing, lugged it up five
sweaty flights because she found my futon
too cramped, too creaky
but I am losing track here
the point is God is preferable to a potato
most of the time—each morning
I say a prayer to the blurry God
behind the glass door
hoping his many eyes are
growing nearsighted and he can’t see
the mold, the newspapers, the cat
Claire Scott is an award-winning poet who has received multiple Pushcart Prize nominations. Her work has been accepted by the Atlanta Review, Bellevue Literary Review, New Ohio Review, Enizagam and Healing Muse among others. Claire is the author of Waiting to be Called and Until I Couldn’t.