He had a clean white shirt on
when he died.
The mystics were pleased-
No trail of saliva,
nor blood,
and no trailing of excrement
leaving his underclothes.
This meant God felt he was clean
like the day of his wedding.

In a hat he married
when his bride wore faux blossoms,
white bedbugs buzzing near his brim,
he waiting for that kiss
at the end of the ceremony
when laughter was withheld
from their pathetic souls.

This was fifty eight years ago,
a rare widower he was,
collecting spiders in oriental vases,
and speaking to crickets
the mystics knew.