Hide the Thimble
by David Dixon
Perhaps God is a bearded old man,
skinny and withered, sitting in the corner
and shouting, “cold, colder, you’re getting colder,”
as I stumble around darkly — arms outstretched
like a blindfolded child in some party game.
Occasionally, when I am within reach,
he whacks me with the rod of Aaron,
so that I stay away from that side of the room.
There are variations to the game, of course,
with the hiders singing louder the closer I get
then softly like a choir of sad angels
when I turn away.
But you always need something to hide,
small yet necessary is good,
like a thimble perhaps, the token
of a kiss;
someone to hide it, and someone else,
a rookie perhaps, wet behind the ears;
childlike enough to play.