God

God crouches each night

in a corner of my room,

then springs up to dance.

Circles

In vanishing ink

she sketches circles of light,

while Samson goes blind.

banana cream pie

winking from the diner shelf

just to torment me

waiting for Godot

even though he never comes—

these futile evenings

kneeling man

a faraway port

calls to you

how slamming the door

in a beggar’s hopeful face

sparks howls of outrage

Why do panhandlers

keep muttering life’s secrets

up and down the streets?

He thought the Punjab

would give him wife and children—

taunting temple bell.

mumbling to himself

old poet’s conversation

takes a baleful turn

My Lady Wisdom,

did I hear you calling me,

or was that the wind?