One day He <br />tipped His top hat <br />and walked <br />out of the room, <br />ending the argument. <br />He stomped off <br />saying: <br />'I don't give guarantees'. <br />I was left <br />quite alone <br />using up the darkness. <br />I rolled up <br />my sweater, <br />up into a ball, <br />and took it <br />to bed with me, <br />a kind of stand-in <br />for God, <br />what washerwoman <br />who walks out <br />when you're clean <br />but not ironed. <br />When I woke up <br />the sweater <br />had turned to <br />bricks of gold. <br />I'd won the world <br />but like a <br />forsaken explorer, <br />I'd lost <br />my map.<br /><br />Anne Sexton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-fury-of-god-s-good-bye/
