God walks with us in aviator glasses
and an unembellished baseball cap.
He tries not to smile too much, or,
when he can't help it, not to show his teeth,
which have blinded one or two of us already.
Some mistake this thoughtfulness for disregard.
He writes long letters and stuffs them in his pockets
between pressed larkspur petals and old folded-up receipts.
When he gets angry he presses his palms together.
He loves picking up sparrows and fixing their wings.
I have seen people accuse him of not being a woman
and spit on his shoes.
I have seen strangers cry at the sight of him.
He likes cooking shows and comics and ballet,
though he cringes at the thought of throbbing toes.
He never gets tired of piggy back rides
or good conversation over ice-cold beer.