He walks sidewalks, knowing he will step here on a
crack, there stumble on a clump of grass, tomorrow
he will get a job, next week knock up
his wife, the child will be ill-favored,
spiteful. She will grieve, but for
him there is no disillusion.
Gods such as he
know all but
I mean, it was awfully convenient,
that he was always an outsider:
Jew among Nazis, foreigner among Americans.
Suspicious, when you think of it,
that he used his tie as a belt,
that he was so spiritual in a vague way—
God does not play dice—
like he never really belonged here.
Yet unlike with Diana and Elvis, nobody wanted
to beatify him, maybe because he didn’t die young.
Suppose the whole light-speed limit was a ruse,
a way of keeping us here in the solar system.
He had to invent a whole improbable physics
to go with that: light beams bending, time warping.
Do you really believe that?