God is no highfalutin author at a ritzy writer's retreat.
Contrary to rumor,
he has never penned a tome titled The Eternal,
Immutable Book of Life.
And at today's hectic pace,
He can no longer put down his pen, lean back,
and solemnly proclaim, "It is finished."
God is the editor of the Daily Cosmos,
and so never has the luxury of inscribing "The End"
on any of His creations.
In fact, He has no time to inscribe anything;
He only jots down barely legible comments.
He's underpaid, overworked,
and is always being sued for libel
by self-pitying readers who don't realize
that He merely prints the news they themselves make.
Since his readership and advertising base expanded,
He has become too busy to dine at any last suppers anymore.
He gulps down egg-salad sandwiches
while furiously editing copy.
The yellow stuff drips on his shirt.
Always under pressure, He's not perfect.
Typos, misquotes, wrong birthdays, premature or out-of-date
sometimes escape his blue pencil,
for there's always that deadline to meet,
if the Cosmos is to hit the newsstands early each morning.
But He never plagiarizes,
because He has only one rival to copy from,
the editor of The Subterranean Flame.
Unlike his competition, He allows retractions.
And He actually bothers reading all letters to the editor,
but answers only those questions
that can't be found by simply reading The Daily
But most letter writers, instead of reading,
put on walkman earphones,
making themselves deaf to the world,
while dancing all alone
to music only they can hear.
If you've any comments on
this poem, Richard
Fein would be pleased to hear from you.