I’ll never be a God.

Jen won’t leave me broken-hearted at the alter.

I won’t cry when Brad gets his head turned by some new pretty young thing.

 

No, I’ll spend my days scribbling notes to my friends,

Learning to slow dance with a woman I love

And listening for my God to whisper in my ear.

 

But I love to see them, frozen in newsprint,

Embarrassed that we’ve caught them sneaking down to earth.

Their temporary human forms caught by the digerati.

 

Don’t fret, dear Gods. This is your fate.

To feign Athenian glory so you can go on shinning long after the newsprint is faded.

And one day, far far from now some little girl will look up into the starry sky and say.

 

Show me again, Oh please,

Show me which ones are the Brad Pitt, Daddy.