Growing up,
I knew three gods.

Graef, morning god,
stole Father when I woke.
Every day he made us sandwiches,
spreading love between
strokes of peanut butter.
White bread,
beautifully packed
in a browning,
thin paper bag
we knew was inescapable.

Anhalt, noon god,
gave Father lunchtime at home.
We worshiped him
in brighter times
when Father could stay.
Only in his mercy
could he sit down
to watch us play.

Schloemer,
evening god,
kept Father past sundown,
when we ate to his honor,
on his dollar,
and our Mother frowned.
Father swept in late,
thin with the weight of an offering,
our shadowy relief.
He carried in the harvest:
weary smiles,
a rough face,  
a bounty of yawns.
Always
a storm of secure arms,
and occasionally,
a bag of Culver's hamburgers.


He was distant company.

I remember their names now,
his first lords.
They tested his mettle, and
Mother's,
in that tiny house
our Father built.

They groomed us for our great flight.

Four were raised up
under three stars:
morning, noon, and night.