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  • David Dixon

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.

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