The foggy view of San Francisco at night
from the 22nd floor of a hotel in Nob Hill
is the place I see God.
The sky is the color of the sunrise – violet, gray and orange –
even though it’s 11 p.m. here.
From my window the street lights look like
the star galaxy of aliens from the future.
They’ve come to tell me that my God
isn’t real, but I know they’re wrong this time.
God’s eyes are the purple-gray color of fog,
his smile is as bright as the flashing traffic lights.
God is the happiest man you’ve ever known
and the saddest too.
God makes ice cream fall from cones
and flowers wilt
and angry drivers honk at slow pedestrians.
God makes light shine through stained-glass windows in chapels
and makes the tears fall down your cheeks,
and makes the foggy city of San Francisco
look like an alien star galaxy coming to tell me
that my God isn’t real.
They may be right sometimes,
whether Jesus Christ or Muhammad or Odin lived or ever did
I do not know,
but my God has no name.
His eyes are the purple-gray color of fog,
his smile is as bright as the flashing traffic lights.
He makes me laugh
and he makes me cry
and I can’t always see him but now I can,
and that will always be enough.