God

As a child, I talked directly to God,
no “Thee” or “Thou,”
but as to another person
who was just like me, but older.

Not just some imaginary friend,
not a playmate, surely,
but a person recognized as adult.
One that I trusted.

The only thing I ever asked was a bike
and, eventually, got one.
But that is another story.
What’s important to me is this:

it wasn’t my imagination 
to which I talked,
but a trusted friend

available whenever he was needed. 

Now I’m in my eighty-second year
and still we talk. 
He’s inside, my lifelong friend.
He doesn’t have a name. 

But it doesn’t matter. 
He is simply there, 
a fulltime accepting presence 
with whom I share

my hopes, my fears, my anger;
to whom I confess transgressions,
share joy
and sometimes tears. 

And he’s been there 
far back as I remember. 
Some call him God.
If so, God is part of myself:

as is the Devil.