The handshake
from one who supposes himself to be God,
sarcasm overflowing and it is there
in plain sight, drool dripping in anticipation
of the take down, of owning a soul
and making them feel as stupid,
as insignificant
as an ant in a silver filled ant mound,
his home destroyed by the handshake
and the hose pumping hot toxic metal.
It was offered in a church,
both the biting sarcasm and the handshake,
both accompanying the sound of a section
of music that tinkled over the church hall pews
and the mourners celebrating the return
of a different messiah;
a handshake that set the seal
of an opinion that had begun to form,
my distrust in this God went the same brutal way
as others who dared suppose
I would take the jealous shit
doled out in the name
of patronisation, the trophy wife
assured because he feels insecure,
the confidence trick displayed
by the overpowering presumptive
was at odds by the song of peace
and the hails of halleluiah from the aisles.
I took the shit, I continue to do so
because that’s what life is,
a handshake,
not revenge
upon a God who knows it all.
Ian D. Hall 2017