Free Lunch--Poem, Pamela Miller, "The Next Time"

When God had again run out of time and patience,
chow mein noodles fell from the sky
for forty days and nights. Recalling
that fire had been mentioned,
we were afraid to touch them.
Then God came down in big black boots
and trampled through the noodles,
crushing them to crumbs. His jaw
was grim. Obviously He meant business.
And Noah, back again—
a bald jowly man resembling
a white-robed Al Capone --
raced frantically beside Him
wheedling, "One more chance! Please,
just one more chance!"
yapping at God's ankle like a Chihuahua.

But when God turns to face us, His eyes
are locked and scary.
He keeps looking at His watch,
like an analyst bored by his singsong patient,
keeps drumming His fingers
on the Taj Mahal in annoyance.
Then, with a lever of breath,
He flips millions of noodles high in the air,
twirling and looping above us
like tiny gold batons,
till they suddenly snap together and
are clamped in His mouth,
the end glowing red like a Marlboro.
And suddenly we know
this is the last thing we'll know:
God's empty face and His cigarette,
His hand so horribly steady
His eyes dry as bone dust
as He blows the red smoke slowly
into every face in the world.