fire or ice

is god mad
at us, or just a little
ticked off
you ask
the minister
when you see
him in the grocery
store
buying beer.
he pulls on
his white color
and smiles.
probably a little
of both, young man.
why don't you
come to church
on sunday, and
we'll talk about it.
we'd love to have
a new parishioner.
but seriously,
you ask him,
staring at his
six pack of
summer ale
and bag of corn
chips.
is god about to
crush us like
ants under his
sandaled feet,
flood the whole
place again,
because of how
we behave. what will
it be, pastor?
fire or ice, this
time around?
he's sweating, a little,
no longer
smiling. see you
on sunday, he says,
giving you
a friendly tap
on the shoulder,
brushing by you.
fire or ice, you yell
to him, as he
checks out, then sprints
towards the door.
fire or ice?
oh, let him go,
an old woman standing
besides you says,
listening to the whole
conversation.
what does he know.
he's a corporate man,
a yes man.