They offer you gods like pastries on a platter,
And oh, what gods they are —
The Grand Old Man of law and thunder,
Smirking Jesus, touting his Sacred Heart,
Or some pale Puritan with scolding lips —
But none of them ever raised my dead
Or turned my water into wine.

Put real dainties on that tray, forget the doughnuts,
Because, really, it amounts to this:
Gods are the truest things in a world of False,
Like a twig of cherries, Venice at morning light;
That's their holy flash and fire,
Like that ginger cat, immortal in its leap,
After a jay he'll catch tomorrow.

Paul McGlynn
PAUL D. McGLYNN has had poems accepted by over 200 journals in the U.S., Canada, Europe, and Australia, including The Ledge, Bogg, The Wallace Stevens Journal, Chiron Review, Poetry Motel, Clark Street Review, Sepia, Freexpression, and The Brobdingnagian Times. His chapbook, Magical Regression, was published by AlphaBeat Press. Paul has had three poems nominated for the Pushcart Prize.