The Day God Left the Paradise Lodge

God’s gone. I saw her take off with her lotions

and oriental teas. But the timber women

have resumed their calisthenics without grief,

mindful of transience and jacuzzi wait times.

No one else appears to care that imperfection

shades the lodge like God’s departure cloud,

skewing orders and neckties in the dining hall

while the wake-up guy misdials in the lobby

and the bellhop’s pores open up again.

I can’t describe the former bliss so suddenly

relieved of us, except to say that in its void

our longing for harmony is asserted everywhere:

the beauticians’ restless filing; the muffled thrum

of marital sex audibly off-sync through drywall.

At management’s insistence, I’ve stopped lamenting

the hot tub’s acidity and the towels inched

just out of reach. I’ve lowered into the water

bubbling with delusions of perfect temperatures.