God so loved the world—
but we don’t love him back,
maybe don’t even believe 

our fleabitten selves deserve affection
from a flea, let alone the Lord
of Hosts. We scratch and breed
 
like feral cats in a landfill
who know life is garbage
in various stages of decay

and delight in the rat’s raw morsel,
sheltering beneath a ziggurat 
of tires too bald for the cunning

broker of rebuilts and retreads,
as the greasy world waits for rain.