God rode up to the Washington Monument
on a lawn boy. He had a mattock and a garden trowel
and was burying his son’s dog tags around the base

when a cop put a boot on the mower and called for backup.
He didn’t see God, who finished the job and stretched out
on the lawn. The cops put up crime tape and swung

their magna-lights and walked the grid. The guy 
in the quilted bomb suit came and went.
Everyone shrugged what a mystery. For a while

Miles and Coltrane blew across the national mall
from a car on Jefferson. It was good.
Even the little bayonets of grass were tender.