If I sit quietly

If I sit quietly

For more than a moment

I take leave of my senses.

Maybe we all do,

The thought of a God,

Which is not a direction

I would choose to take,

On a tall stool

In a dark pub

After a few glasses of warm scotch

But the thought of a god

Choosing to dwell within us

In the dark lonely spot

Where no self-respecting person

Would want to be,

Nursing a fragile ego

Held together with sticking plaster,

Acting like a second in the corner

Of a dirty fighter

With an open wound

On his eyebrow

With puckered skin

Never getting its chance

To fully heal

Before it is opened up again,

The ghost

Of a hangover

From the fight before.

Acting as a referee,

With a backhander

In used notes

Sticking out of his pocket,

A bloody thumbprint

Covering the Queen.

The very thought of god

Being a sucker for a punch,

Suggests a flawed personality.

Which in many ways gives me hope

For the future

When the bell rings

For the next round

And I have to go again.

Every day another battle

To keep my feet,

Hold my own

Against a brutish opponent,

With my glass chin

Always exposed.

Perhaps getting knocked down

Is not the problem

It is the getting up.

I have no real answer to that

And God the concept

Is silent

On the subject.

Perhaps, if I am given a free hand,

It might be a haymaker,

One day

I guess I’ll need it.