In the cathedral at Chichester, God came incognito,
putting on gender like an old bathrobe.
The creator of all things visible and invisible
knew the world’s need for a kindly grandfather.
So, yielding to popular pressure,
he let the worshipers have their way.
He put on faded carpet slippers,
padded down the stone aisles, smiling vaguely
at the organ’s solemn belly rumblings of reverence.
I felt the dead listening from their stone boxes:
longtime residents in their earthly remnants
of bone and shriveled leather,
empty eyesockets staring at eternity.
A stained-glass window told some old tale
repeating itself in colorful light on the worn paving stones.
I bent a knee, sank down onto the uncushioned pew.
It was like having tea with God, companionable,
but with no need to say anything.