underneath the fingerprints of a god

oh yes
there are bones
skeletons of dogs
and sheep
and yet the one impression that i keep
inside my favorite foundry mold
is of a long tall tale of being old
in an age of superlatives:
deadliest mass shooting
most post-hurricane looting
and i have a lot of others, sisters and brothers
because i'm working on the history of Man.
i see him crawling away from his trash can
artificially built up by reputation,
dreaming of a prolonged retirement vacation
with his modern holiday lover
claiming to know how all the marked cards are dealt.
i watch his party ice melt
and his furrowed forehead become warm
underneath the fingerprints of a god
who had been modeled originally in clay
oh yes
someone pray.