by Tim Cunningham
For the sake of avoiding argument,
Let’s posit that God is dead;
Which implies that He was once alive,
Raising new dilemmas.
But, for the sake of avoiding argument,
Let’s sidestep the casuistry and wonder
At the work of a six day week:
The mountains, seas, the deserts, lakes,
The butterflies, the mystery of a leaf,
The place of wasps in creation’s jig-saw.
Now, just consider the maintenance.
Presuming God is dead, who
Rewires the electrics in the stars
And regulates the sun’s thermostat?
Who tweaks a maverick planet’s orbit
And reminds the moon to draw the tide?
What demi-god directs the salmons’ traffic
And alerts the bear to the waterfall,
Tells the daffodil it is almost spring,
The snow that winter has arrived,
Wakes the cock to crow at dawn,
The owl to fly into darkness,
Coaches the kingfisher’s dive,
Preserves the nightingale’s sheet music intact?
No six day week, then rest, for him.
Blue-collar God works twenty four seven,
The pockets of his frantic dungarees
Bulging with miracles and spanners
