I can imagine them sitting around up there
through the long midnight hours
over cups of stale coffee and whiteboards crossed and recrossed in faded ink
the morning waits coiled and the hours peel back
there is nothing left to say
God leans forward, sets his cup down.
“Well, son,” he says, slowly,
“this is a high-risk investment. It’s all or nothing now.”
the morning coming will be the sort you get up
long before dawn cracks the world,
so early you shake and the veins in your fingers are shot with ice.
“you ready for this?”
it wasn’t really a question.
Jesus nods slow.
the sky turns dawn-grey.