He sat comfortably at the place of God
who was too polite to stay
where He was not desired,
too dignified to squat in His own house
after my unwritten notice of eviction.
Now I talk to myself,
words bouncing round the empty room,
a discoloured polaroid letting me know
what the joy of His salvation looked like.
How do I dismantle this idol of my own making -
one of flesh and bone, that I can see and touch -
and start believing again
that God is not too proud to return?
