Put Him in a corner, turn your head, He’s gone.
Bury Him under Nubian sands for generations,
And when you dig Him up, He’s equally gone.
Even the image we held of Him has flown—
No white-maned Jewish patriarch comes to mind.
Instead, we see Our Father, in baggy overalls,
Puttering around the messy, shadowed garage,
Fixing one thing while fouling up three,
Ranting about the Philistines and the Democrats.
When we weren’t looking, He slipped out the door.
We prowl the night lanes, shouting out His name,
Which returns an echo on the empty wind.
This poem intrigued me. I could feel the desolation and emptiness. Beautiful and sad and lonely.
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