Wesley Kendall

PARTY’S OVER

God enters the room so I have to hide
my fake Chanel bags. The christmas lights are strung out
like an electric fence. I’m glad I made you a criminal,
says God. Every world needs one like a dirty
floor. I’m surprised to realize
I invented badness. Or that God invented badness
through me. Heaven is a room. Not the one
we’re in. What’s gotten into you? I ask God.
The end of time fills me up like turning on the light
in the evening. Nobody loves anyone else.
I don’t love you, says God. I’m frozen with the sledgehammer
overhead. The ice sculpture is soaking the carpet.
The house deed is held to a flame. It’s what I already know.
But I bring myself to the future like a reluctant pomeranian.
And the future keeps me tight
on its pink studded leash.