I prayed just so that someone else could see

what it seems that others had missed in their penance

and in their quiet times when they spoke with gods

long since quieted by belief in reality and disbelief.

The other day while I traveled throug a grayed-out landscape

and visions and dreams seemed to come unbidden

in this barrenness that surrounds us

so that we can work and slave and dream and die,

the American god spoke to me--

he sat atop one of his synagogues or churches

where people gather in his name to give him praise

through the offering plate, and they can offer up money

on the altar where it sits for all to see everyone's faith

or to be taken back to a locked room where the eye-glassed

man counts every penny, deciding who goes to heaven

and who goes to hell while the preacher teaches meaningless things,

things that become meaningful after the business meeting

held later in darker rooms with even bigger locks.

The American god sat perched atop his house,

possessing the body of a hawk that searched his territory

just to take that one more morsel from the mouse

who worked and pulled and sweated only to feed his family,

but instead offered up that good intention