I have found my God sitting beneath the
apple tree.
He wears a pair of faded Goodwill jeans
with holes at the knees.
His legs are bent
to his bare chest like a child’s when he
sits up in bed asking his mother
if there are monsters in the closet.

My God wears a baseball cap,
his overgrown frizzy white hair peeking out,
and doesn’t flinch when an apple
lands on his head.
His ragged, muddy sneakers
tap to the beat of rustling leaves.

My God can’t hear the cars in the street.
I have found him munching on
the green apples and the red ones,
smiling as only a polite stranger when
we pass.

My God refuses to stand and shake
my hand.
His hands are too sticky with juice.