In The Cupboard (Poetry)

My God lives in the cupboard
and I sometimes take him out
wake him up and ask him
what this damaged world’s about.

He sits awhile and muses
while he shakes his weary head
groans in his beard and mutters —
ponders over what I’ve said.

At last he shrugs and gives me
a long-suffering half-smile
admits he’s not been following
the plot for quite some while.

Left to his own devices
mankind’s made a righteous mess
and while sympathising to a point
God has his own to press.

After all he’s just The Maker
who then loses all control
once the product’s handed over
and effectively been sold.

If the owners don’t maintain it
things get broken — they’re to blame
the lifetime guarantee is void —
so why drag up His name?

His is the voice of reason
all should recognise as true
nothing’s written in the contract —
only Fate will follow through.

It’s more peaceful in that cupboard
where God hoards his perfect schemes
shut away from all the chaos
I should leave him to his dreams.