For My Mother


God’s Boots

Cleaning them

in the kitchen

before daylight,

I often wondered who my master was.

I never saw him

but I heard his voice

over the scratchy intercom,

robbed of all character,

like distant orders from a machine,

while he stayed in his room.

Expensive but unexceptional boots,

chestnut leather.

Shiny, thanks to me.

Can this be God?

Is God so small?

Perhaps this isn’t God at all.