People often prayed to Mrs. God
when they had requests.
They felt she would be kinder
and forward their petitions

sympathetically to the Lord
when he was the most receptive.
She was like a village letter writer,
the soul with wondrous skills.

Yet it was actually God
whose default was “Yes, why not?”
He liked to see the children smile
even if bonbons spoiled their supper.

He like the way a smoker’s face
relaxed as she took a deep drag
after a hard morning.
He invented whipped cream.

“They won’t thank you in the end,”
Mrs. God warned.
But he loved their ardent gratitude
even more than their faith,
the glowing face behind a royal flush,
a quick text in the night:
Baby here, all well, Mary resting, thx.