God yawns and rakes a hand through silver hair, pulls faces,
tweaks noses. God’s life is not as one supposes.
God is always neatly dressed, but, drunk, may curse
or bless, slouched on a golden throne.
But God can sit up very straight, his perfect features carved
in marble boredom while we wait.
A cup of vintage nectar
or blank stare sends Hermes through the air.
God applauds a reckless hero here below
or grumbles, “Yeah, he has to go.”
God, in fact, will muse —a finger to his cheek—
while empires bloom or wilt another week.
God rarely smiles, but bears the world in style.
God by Ken Anderson | Sandalwood Poetry Reed Diffuser Set
$20.00Price
