Night is for sleeping.

Night is for sleeping.
The welcoming bed, the comforter, crisp sheets, soft pillows for heads.
Moonlight, star light, cat smuggled at your feet.
Dreams sweet dreams, whispering softly for your attendance,
But
Behind the dreams in your head,
There’s a door, there behind the old cloths rack, open just a little,
Cracked.
Behind that door sits a funny strange little man,
Surrounded by switches, knobs, dials, and screens.
Muttering into a microphones,
Twitching in his seat.
Impatient.
Waiting.
Pushing at buttons,
Flipping off switches.
I live on the same street that God lives on.
I never knew it. 
I never realized it.
Driving home, singing to the music, thinking of everything and nothing…
There it is
At the end of the block
At the highest point of the street of course
Big, bright, tall.
I never noticed, 
I never saw,
I didn’t think it was possible,
On a normal corner, on an average block,
You wouldn’t expect it, so I made up my mind,
I’ve never said hello, good to have you next door,
I’m going to visit God, maybe have coffee, sit for a Chat,
See if by chance I can make god smile.
Showered, shaved, brushed and dressed, but not too much,
I don’t want it to look like a Sunday trip,
Just a simple visit, a nod, a wink, 
And a shake of hands goodbye,
a glad to be you neighbor,
if I can ever help, drop by. 
I walk down the block, it’s not very far,
Then I’m there.
God’s house.
God’s palace.
Gargantuan in size. 
Long tall gold fences, pearly gates open spread wide a mile high ,
From the street to the polished marble steps the gold cobble stone stretch.
The yard is fluffy clouds, edged, prefect like angels would keep.
The steps are bounded by banisters of mixed metals
Gold, bronze, silver, and brass,
Steal, platinum, iron mixed intertwined
Precious gems are everywhere that you grasp.
The porch alabaster, snow blind white, smooth as glass.
The doors, Oh the doors seem to go sky high,
Woods inlaid with woods in impossible design,
My mind whirls,
My breath sticks, 
I see how small I am,
How great this is,
And wonder why I exist.
Knees are seismic zones,
Blather minded,
Kidneys work overtime.
There on the door,
A knocker,
A diamond,
Five pounds at least,
As I’m wimping away, my hand reaches out,
The diamond goes thud,
The echo, 
echo, 
echo, 
echo, 
echo,
Time stops, Stands still, and walks in a circle around me.
I have that feeling you get when you look up and see the police car in the mirror.
The door opens, my breath slaps me down, body like jello.
My eyes blur and clear.
A man stands there,
Peter?
I fear.
He is tall and straight, perfectly coiffed, no a hair out of place
Not a wrinkle in his suit, no dust on his shoes, so perfect a shine, I can see myself!!!
All new.
All clean.
All a perfect sheen.
With no smile on his face, it’d be out of place, ruin the perfect look of complicacy, symmetry and grace.
“Yes”
That’s all, he says no more,
Just “Yes”
I look at my feet,
Shoes all dusty, pants wrinkled, old. And if my shoe weren’t glued to the porch I’d run.
Words dribble though my lips,
“I live down the block and never said hi so I thought I’d just drop by and say hello, “Is god at home, can I possibly meet him, I don’t want to interrupt, but if there’s a chance…”
The smell is vile,
Vomitus,
Corrupt.
My head snaps, I look up, Eyes so wide, I can’t miss enough.
He smiles, Oh dear god, he smiles.
Teeth sharp, Black and green, gristle hanging, gums bleed, breath crawls out.
The noise, a giggle I think,
The earthquake of my knees makes my head bob and shake.
“Wrong house…” Did I hear “wrong house…over there…”
The hand at the end of a stick called his arm, Is shriveled and stained and rotting.
I stare…
The blast from the shutting of the door tosses me to the street.
What??? Why??? I stand up and look, where had he point???
There. A house. Small. 1940’s or 1950’s.
A simple green lawn.
Cement walk up to well worn wooden steps.
Porch swing, wind chimes, plain old door.
I knock on the screen,
The door opens up,
An old man, hair out of place, cup in his hand.
He smiles,
I smile
“Come in.’ he says.
I follow, over well kept old carpet, down the hall…
The man in the room stomps the floor, slams down a switch. He leans forward and with my wife’s voice and says, “John, John time for coffee…”
Sunlight...Morning.
Night is for dreaming, 
But
Sometimes we get to learn from them in the sunlight of morning.

Written by John Fried
Posted on 03-07-13