Wino

Am I responsible for God,
if in truth it's God
here asleep
in the sludge of his vomit?

What am I to say,
as I sit the curbstone beside him:
talk about my day,
how fragile is our daily
existence?

The latter he must personally know.

Then what, exactly, is my role?
And why was I chosen?
Am I to take care of this drunk
who is epileptic?

God shows his face,
not only in a halo of radiance,
also in disgrace.