God delivers to the Hamptons,
stands in spirit with the doormen,
speaks German, admires Ming porcelain
as much as pewter chopsticks pinning hair buns dyed Mets orange,
brings sunflowers to black steel towers
and opens up the crypt-like doors of neighborly cathedrals
and it’s always right on time.
God believes in heaven and knows what hell is like
but prefers, when all is said and done, the salad
with balsamic vinaigrette (and a sparkling Prosecco to go with it)
at the outdoor church café with boy’s choir under parasols
to maybe steal a peek between bites at the gift store book
on the great chain of being, while the talk delights and shocks
and the same thing never comes down Park Avenue twice.
God knows Power Point,
has the most amazing eyes you never saw,
blacks out Rhianna’s teeth on billboards for fun,
will always dress ‘em up to dress 'em down
the way that bums and businessmen change identities with their eyes
and guys and gals leap on each other
at the pretense of a smile.
God weaves the word “ingress” in the seams of city streets
as if it has some meaning for that day,
and takes away the apple-pretzel vendor
as if you’d really miss him
and the day, too, gone on too long, glows somber when it’s almost done
but God keeps lit his devil shop, with fictions in the windows
to keep the whole mess moving, so that she can stop and look.
