Almost Something

I worship not with hymns or knees, but in the rustle of the trees, in socks that vanish in the wash, and toast that lands, of course, jam-squash. I’ve built a chapel in my brain, with pews of doubt and tea-stained rain, a steeple made of “Could be, though,” and sermons whispered soft and low. No angels here, no Book of Rules— just dreams that argue with the schools, and stars that blink in Morse-code blips while comets draft apocalypse. I don’t believe in bearded skies, but I suspect the moon tells lies. And when my cat begins to stare, I think—somebody might be there. Not God with thunder, plagues, or plan, but Something odd that tickles man. It hums inside a crusty roll, then vanishes—like half the soul. So here I stand—no robes, no creed— just wonder, stitched to human need. I light a match. The dark replies. And somewhere, Something rolls its eyes.