Daring God

The boy is nimble as a sprite,
dancing day and night
for God
on His white fire throne.
How long can he tap
across the marble,
feet kicking high,
arms folded proudly --
such a wicked sense of glee!

Sweating through the heat,
this taunter, this teaser lingers
in God's catatonic stare.
The wizened Man is silent -- 
if not for His white beard
hung down to the floor,
ruffling in wind
from His furnaced chair,
He might be mistaken
for a sculpture.

The boy flicks a thumb
from his wrinkled nose,
middle fingers flipped open
like switchblades,
tongue stuck out.
He shouts in English,
then Latin, "God's Language",
begging bolts of lightning
from the sky.

When a toddler, he was civil,
tempting God to chase him
'round the dinner table,
his desk at school,
a playground swingset.
Unbroken silence led to this --
pants dropped loose about the ankles,
bared full-moon buttocks
swinging.

Never a word, never a blink --
His black onyx eyes,
His faceless stare
reach across miles of marble,
beneath a clear blue sky.

Scott Speck
02/10/2000