he spends his days amongst
tattered magazines and stains on his coffee
table,
before he won coasters by signing up
for the toronto star.

in his torn shirt, as though someone grabbed
his collar from behind
and ruffled hair from sleeping in one time
too many.
he begins his days looking for God
under his pillow,
in his desk drawers.

he dreams He is there, wakes with
full hope of finding Him
in everyday places, with his knick knacks
and crusted paint brushes
or behind worn curtains, in his small
balcony.

each day passing like the one before,
the skin at the front of his neck irritated as though
there is something there
he cannot see. the doctors
could not see it either,
but prescribed him small doses of
anti-hallucinogens.

and still he dreams almost always in fantastic
colour, plagued
by the search for God in his
throat, where his voice vibrates, and
swears He is there.