Thank God You're Not a God,
When we showed up for the reading drunk, John,
We were in celestial form, unmixed
And brimming. Having just decoded
The Mongolian spy service cryptic.
The sun was reaching deeper between
The Manhattan bricks. The moustached man
Had stopped the digital preservation
Of my silence. He muttered something
About alternate side parking and then
About the assassination assignment
He had almost taken and suavely left.
Went out into the world of banished nature.