The stage is a red face
of wrinkles and you’ve returned
from Nice with no record deal.
The first time you vomited
on me I forgave you, wore it
like a brown dressing
from Commander’s Palace.
The second time you spilled,
blood swarmed
the cracks of my keys,
but you continued playing
in the slush. You backwards
Moses. I know it’s not the way
you wanted to mark me
but what do you have
left to give but the remains
of a sour stomach? I created you
to glorify me, to show the world
an addict in a wig could rattle
my body with divine imagination.
I handed you a soul that could not
be taken by anyone who fears
you. Booker, I want it back.