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