There’s something wrong with my coloring book:
I can’t see the lines.
Is this a cow or a horse?
God must need glasses,
perhaps a change in prescription,
or clean the present ones.
Maybe God’s eyes with age can’t see well;
looking over all creation is a strain.
Maybe the printer mixed up my book at the shop,
or it got smudged in the printing process.
How am I to stay within the lines,
let alone know what color to use?

If I could have read more clearly,
would I have stayed within the lines,
pledging an unobtainable life of purity?
You see I strayed out,
was called sinful,
an abomination to Christianity.
I don’t see how they can do that;
God did create the book?

I could not see
my roommate drinking beer,
while coloring a neon penis blue.
I thought the images were cowboys
riding the open prairie,
grooming their horses;
they turned out to be:
bookstores
forest preserves
parking lots
restrooms.

Was there supposed to be a bridal gown?
It looked like one.
What about kids
in a sandbox,
riding bicycles,
in caps and gowns,
was that supposed to be in my book?

Did you see the death,
pain, suffering from AIDS?
Was Your myopia so severe,
so focused on day-to-day operations?
Who drew thunderclouds
when You promised a rainbow?