Casey Roland

Tonight I watched God get off an elevator.

The door slid open at the second floor, he stepped out —
right oxford onto yellow tile. He turned left
down a poorly lit corridor — his heels
tapping softly, echoing off the walls, eggshell white.

I wanted to follow him, shake his hand,
say something like, “Hey, God, you’re the man.”
We’re always asking the poor guy for favors, so I wanted
to make his day. But I didn’t.
I leaned against one of those eggshell walls

outside my dying grandfather’s room — he hadn’t
opened his eyes in days,
forgot me a long time ago — and
the only words I could think to say were, “Hey, God,
what’s up with making my Nana cry like that?”

So I just didn’t say anything.

A fluorescent light on the ceiling flickered when
he passed beneath it, and outside of the rooms
housing the beautiful and the sick and the dying, he sat
on a bench upholstered in pea-soup vinyl,
put his elbows on his knees,

his head in his hands,
and sighed deeply.
 
 
 
 
 

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