God's dog and garbage

The sky looks dirty today,
as if God opened a vacuum bag
and shook all the dust and dirt into the sky.
Dog hair and paper clips and strings from socks
spread out across blue into Tennessee,
Georgia and Montana.
Light turns a dull toxic orange.

People are excited to see God's dirt
and know he has a dog.
Children rip limbs from trees
take the pointy end
and sketch out God's
labrador. His paws are wide,
occasionally clumsy around stairs.
He has bad hips, decaying gums.

After God takes his labrador to the park,
God walks into his kitchen,
makes himself a chicken salad sandwich
and turns on his a copy
of Van Halen's 1984 on vinyl
just loud enough so the speakers won't hiss.
He chews the crust off first and taps
his foot when "Hot for Teacher" comes on.

When it rains, God's lab rolls around
on the ground and licks his paws.
That's the thunder. God watches
his TV in the dark and that's lightning.