I fell out of the traps and on to The Queensway

after drinking four bottles of Foxwhelp cider,

the Old Testament sting in my eye.

Saturday night had swindled the sky of stars;

I turned left at the close of each chapter

and verse to elude the predestined stare,

and found God at the end of a gravel drive

in the shape of a concrete sphere.

Football-sized yet ineffable;

His smooth white surface

engraved with the letters PRIVATE.

I didn't pay that any mind,

figured to roll God all the way home

and come morning begin the inquisition -

or just keep Him in the garden

for Sundays and at Christmas.

While the path was on the level

I dribbled and passed God

from left to right and back again.

When we met the incline I stooped

to push and shove the little bastard.

He didn't say much and I assumed

that he'd mellowed with age.

Straining and sweating, at the summit

I rested, unknowing that the path

sloped sharply downwards.

God carried on without me, careering

into cars, lampposts and houses,

setting off alarms and turning on eclipses;

the sun rose and sank in a matter of minutes,

the moon waxed crimson, shamefaced, sheepish,

the townsfolk flung their windows open.

Then it slowed down to a regular pendulum,

calmed and orderly, Sunday bells pealing

and God was out of sight, over the horizon.

He must have known what I meant to ask Him.