Dear God of Adulthood.

You are the God we reached for as kids
candy cigarettes dangling from our mouths.
Cops and robbers.
Arms that couldn’t reach high enough,
no matter how many tippy toes we stood on.
The glacial pace of your deliverance maddening,
We thought we would be liberated once we found you.
Now, I find you inside envelopes,
in office buildings,
in the cleaning aisle of the grocery store
on the shelf with the toilet bowl cleaners.

Dear God of Adulthood,
I don’t know if I should be praying to you yet.
I still pray to the God of Childhood when you aren’t looking.
I’m not certain if that is the correct God either.
Which is the correct God to worship when you’re 30, but you’re still ticklish, still jump in puddles, still yell out “oly oly oxen free”  as soon as you get home from work, still take single pieces of candy from the bulk candy section at the store when no one is looking?

Dear God of Adulthood,
I am running out of jobs to be fired from.
I can’t make a living off my charm.
I need just enough of you to fill out a job application
without the word “Fuck-O.”
It’s not on purpose, I promise.
I pinky promise which was once
once generally viable form of contract.

Dear God of Adulthood,
I only learned recently that crossies
is not a liability exemption.
The other night, I said “I love you,”
middle finger firmly crossed over the index.
I was only speaking to myself,
yet, I still felt deceived.
Apparently deception is only acceptable if you shake on it.

Dear God of Adulthood,
My lover said I should grow up.
I explained to her I couldn’t grow any taller.
Instead, I developed fondness for taupe and beige,
I began to worry about my health.
I purchased a vacuum cleaner.
It didn’t feel right in my hands.

Dear God of Adulthood,
How do I rid myself of you
if only briefly
or until next paycheck?
Do you demand a child sacrifice?
Fine. I offer you the throat of my Teddy Bear
upon this altar of tax returns.
Cut its throat. Let the fluff spill forth.
Let my socks grow soggy in its cotton-wisps.
Let me watch the glimmer drain from its button eyes
as the tufts pour through its lacerations.

Take it. Take it quick.

Amen.

 

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