Stumbling on God, a poem

That morning,

I walked by what I assumed was a body.

From the way the mass was wrapped tightly around

a dirty blanket, cord fettered around the feet, it couldn't have been anything other than that.

I didn't know they were alive until they spoke.  

It’s good to be God on Tuesdays,

a voice said as I, at first, tried to tip-toe afraid I would wake them.

It’s good to be the one
who made all this possible
on the day which many see as any other. 

I stopped out of guilty sympathy and asked if the form needed help, if “God” needed me to call someone, if They were there. 

But the silhouette laughed, explaining I was the one who needed help. I was the one who needed to rid the definitions of the days. There was no wind I could keep or air I could claim that was fully mine yet there I was, formed by it. I felt shocked outside of my body, weightless, and omnipotent with no need or want of power. One, and one. 

You’re a guest here, the voice said, and yet you do not act like it. Didn’t Diogenes teach you people anything? No wonder I left. 

I pressed my hand on the blanket and shape but nothing. Then, a bus behind roared by and I felt as I had always felt once again.