De-finding God

My God dresses with style,

Wears a tight-fitting shroud,

Bows and tips her halo to beauty,

And dances on Sundays.

My God is an old eccentric, a rick in her walk,

A cracked pane in her window,

A petticoat set aside for holidays,

But ready to swat flies.

My God gets bored in line,

Picks her teeth in public,

Rattles her car keys for good luck,

And sulks when her jokes don’t score.

My God’s a hoot to dance with,

Just as handy with a drill as with the cello,

Always good for a night drive,

And never chain-chokes her dog.

My God is a yellow, forgotten box,

Shredding away into vapors on the street,

She taps on my time with her cane,

And receives no one in the parlor after six.

My God sips her hot toddy,

Plunks down in a feather bed,

Tosses about her many romance novels

In a room she leaves a shambles sometimes.

My God likes to sleep,

And she will not be pleased if you wake her for no reason.