Today came the Maker to my door, hoping to collect what I owe
on my sins against his terrible mercy. Good luck on that. Let me
wash your dishes, I’ll crouch by your knee like a dog, but don’t ask me
to pay. I slipped through more thinning passages than even your
hundred fingers could count. What’s that worth? Not
a free ride in sight. Price and accounting’s greasy sheen over all.
I took in a breath. It cost me to do it. He turned out my pockets
and took my home, my bike, and my last-born. She capered
like a fawn at his knee. It should have been me. Now
I’m sitting here with nothing but this gray dawn,
the same tide that turns us over and over and over.
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