God's Gutter Ball

When I came to your bedside

that night, my lip quivering

in a premature panic you

taught me a secret.

“Just count the seconds between

the thunder and the strike,”

so I did.

 

One,

      two,

            three.

 

“God is just bowling,”

you said with a cup of tea

in your hand

coaxing me into bed

and hushing my tears.

 

When the thunder barrels

down the clouded lanes

illuminating the somber

sky with God’s strikes

I think only of you in your silk nightgown

On that Wednesday night.

 

And as the storm moves closer

I am not frightened by it.

I count the seconds,

one,

       two,

              three.

 

You have gone so far
I cannot count the distance.

 

The thought hits me like

a perfect strike to the chest

—God has no gutter balls.

 

I am frightened

only of

           losing

                     you.

 

 

 

 

 

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