#1 Hit Song

It’s time to write a hit song, and God is not happy.
Why the loops? Why the endless repetition? he says,
slamming the headphones down on the console.
The producer stares off into space. It’s not science,
he says after a moment, but there are formulas.
God opens the door to the alleyway and releases
a smattering of applause. It is actually the sound 
of rain. When he returns, his hair is damp and he 
smells of cigarettes. Look, he says, conciliatory, 
this isn’t exactly working. Would it be possible 
to darken the lights while I just sit at the piano? 
The producer nods. Somebody lights a candle. 
God slips onto the stool, tugs gently at his beard, 
frames a few hesitant minor chords then lifts his 
voice into a haunting falsetto that is unbelievably 
bad. It sounds like cat-sex, like someone hurting 
a child. But God’s so damn happy, no one cares.

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