My friend’s god is an exacting god:
no dog-ears, no smudges or pencil, &
(god forbid) no eating or drinking
near anything type-set. All jackets
and spines remain in pristine condition.

My friend cringes at my tented books
splayed on tables and dressers,
their covers needled with
impressions of teeth—
dogs and babies that have acquired
a taste for paste and cardboard.

Sauce- and wine-stained pages attest
to a reading-permitted-while-eating rule.

I wouldn’t get along with my friend’s god.
Distaste for the smashed gnat, victim
of reading au plein air obvious on his face.
And I’m sure I’d be struck down before
I got a book halfway down the pool’s steps
even if I did hold it above my head.

No thanks. I prefer my god who doesn’t frown
at the book shoved into the beach bag
with the other things I need
for protection: a hat, towel, sunscreen.

So what if my books know the sticky laminate
of diners? They’ve experienced museum-perfect
humidity and pressurized cabins, too.

Nighttime, moored in their slips on the proper shelf,
they murmur tales to one another
while my god dozes in the recliner,
a throw tossed carelessly across his thin legs.