Mother of God

The Mother of God

Comes every morning

to serve us bacon and eggs,

hash browns,

rye toast,

heavenly coffee.

The Mother of God

who nursed the little bugger

at her ample breast

who nurtured to manhood

the god of pain and suffering

he who stretched out his arms

to a universe of silence

with idiot babbling around the edges.

The Mother of God

wants nothing to do with all that. 

It’s dead (and has stayed buried).

She has her own life now.

She likes the people at the dinner.

She is loud and funny.

She flirts with the regulars.

She sleeps with the cook.

The Holy Mother of us all

never has to write down your order

she remembers everything.