Let God Knock

Let God Knock
by Ed Davis

Don’t know why it aggervates me so
to sneak drinks behind the bathroom
door, but I pull it shut though
there’s no one home but me,
my wife Brownie gone to glory,
kids grown and gone south or north
to sorry husbands and silly wives.
So I sit past midnight on the john,
pourin one shot more (never a full glass),
feelin guilty as a whore.  But why?
Well, if it ain’t the kids, preacher
or Baptist Circle ladies,
then it must be God I’m fearin,
as if even He’d deny a man a snort
when his legs throb like thunder,
hands can’t grip the paper,
eyesight’s too far gone to hunt,
and ol’ Tom’s as dry as a dead vine.
But let God knock on the bathroom
door, I’d let ‘im in, play some gin
(hell, y’know I’d let ‘im win).
Then as dawn rose over Pucketts’
backyard, I’d say, “God, y’know I’m
guilty.  Is that why you’ve come?”
I hope he’d grin, hitch up his britches
and rise, stiff from squattin
on the tub, spit terbaccy in the can
and say, “Haskell, I’ve seen better,
but I’ve seen worse,” then fade
into the woodwork as sun came nigh.

(From the chapbook Haskell
Seven Buffaloes Press 1987.)