You & I

God is the hand riding waves
out the window of a speeding car.
You and I are clammy palms,
forced to touch in church.

God is the peace of washing dishes
and folding warm, clean clothes.
You and I are scenarios conjured
when the kid is late for curfew.

God is a nap with the ceiling fan spinning
next to an open window in June.
You and I are the twisted sheets
that wake us before the alarm.

God is the sound of footsteps on the stairs
in a house on Christmas morning.
You and I are New Years Eve in New York,
as seen from the Pacific Northwest.

God is the olive oil and the salt
that marinades the bloody red steak.
You and I are the bowl of soup
that’s short on bits of chicken.

God is the dog resting his nose on your
silently         weeping       chest.
You and I are the cat tiptoeing on the fence
of a yard that is not his own.

God is the tongue after the meal
licking the bowl clean.
You and I are the shaking foot,
waiting for the water to boil.

God is the lingering smell of campfire
on the hoodie you forgot to wash.
You and I are the book of matches
that has worn down all the spark.

God is the doorbell aggressively pushed
by your best friend on your birthday.
You and I are the unknown caller
breathing at 4am.

God is the local train that turns express
when you are running late.
You and I are the elevator button
that everyone thought had been pressed.

God is the drum and the silence,
at the cemetery in Arlington.
You and I are a name tag event,
with no alcohol.