God Is Probably A Water Tower by Robin Gow

 

Everywhere I’ve lived

you can always see one

peering over the foreheads of buildings.

 

This water tower is blue

and wants everyone to drink deeply

from re-usable water bottles.

 

We’re killing the earth,

I think and I take inventory

of the beautiful debris in the grass

shreds of paper, a foil tangle,

crushed plastic bottle caps.

 

I’d like a soda but it’s only morning yet.

 

Somewhere my dad is probably

prying open his first can of

Diet Coke.

 

God is probably a water tower.

 

There’s an autobody shop and I love

those because all the cars are dismembered

but in a gentle way.

 

Tires lay stacked in piles and I know

I could climb them—maybe be tall enough

for the water tower to get

a good look at me.

 

How old am I?

I feel like I never got to be a boy

though I’m sure I was a few afternoons

at least.

 

I stop on no corner in particular

and say a prayer to the water towers.

 

Wind tugs at the trash

in the grass.

 

---

Robin Gow’s poetry has recently been published in POETRY, New Delta Review, and Roanoke Review. He is a graduate student and professor at Adelphi University pursing an MFA in creative writing. He is the Editor at Large for Village of Crickets and Social Media Coordinator for Oyster River Pages. He is an out and proud bisexual transgender man passionate about LGBT issues. He loves poetry that lilts in and out of reality and his queerness is also the central axis of his work.