It's absolutely true that God eats apples with his rice
Those of us who have seen the man up close know
Every morning, disguised in a lungi and shirt, he
Buys vegetables, prawns, and so on, before
Reading the newspaper with his high-powered glasses
His wife goes to work, they have no children, he
Manages to pass the afternoon and evening in sleep
He sleeps because he has to stay up every night
In the poky living room by an oilstained light . . .
A brass plate of rice on a three-legged table
At which God sits and eats, but not just the rice
Two or three apples turn up suddenly on his plate
It's not a big deal, happens every night, inevitably
But before you know it the number of apples rises
As the night deepens, they no longer fit on the plate,
Apples are heaped on the table, floor, everywhere.
His wife sleeps, the fridge sleeps, the TV glows blue . . .
He is not perturbed. One by one, patiently, he eats
The bunch of rotten apples, their pus oozing out
God eats them all by himself, staying up all night
The apples we don't eat but pass on to our maids . . .