This world is full of small-time gods you’ve never heard of, and they are the sweetest of the gods.
They are not prone
to vengeance and extravagance
as are their famous cousins
They are not petty
as people are (big fish, little pond syndrome)
Instead, they like to laze in meadows
and on creek banks
or venture into town
as long as town doesn’t feature more than
one streetlight, two’s the top limit.
You can beseech them with hot dogs and s’mores
Or a pair of hand knit socks come winter (which they love, despite not feeling the cold or actually possessing feet)
No temples. Look for them at high school football games, concerts on the town green, the one good ice cream stand.
Or catch a glimpse most nights, late.
Have you noticed how some nights there’s a glow in the air, long after the ball games are done?
That’s them. They leave their ponds and hedgerows late, arrive after the t-ball and Little League teams have finished —the players all had their turn to run and cheer, pick flowers in the outfield, sweat that sweet summer child sweat, then go home for bed and bath with the last of the light because it’s June and the sun sets late.
That’s when the small-time gods come out. They gather to celebrate the day just ended, and the day to come.
Puff Of Smoke Poems 