Today, a Manila postcard sunset. Old,
in doubt, we had asked for a sign, but God,

what else could it mean but the traffic
below is a scream. What kind of god

would think a standstill home commute
sound proof that this life is flawed. God,

Talk to me, you could say, but the Pasig
River remains undredged, reflects no god

 

like light. Aflame, the main avenue
bodies forth our secret wants. My God,

mightn't we Need Direction? Needless
to pray to the towering steel-boned god.

This I want. That I want. We need to
talk. The times are odd without a God.

I want chicken, I want white, I want new,
sleek, fit, trim, young. Such fancy god

 

sent treats leave us wanting here on earth.
Or are we above it all? Talk to God

if you (Can't sleep? Don't count sheep.)
count black tarp hallelujahs. Signed, God.