The Wrong God

"So God, are you going to talk with me, or not?" He stops chewing on his donut, some crumbs and a little custard hang in the vicinity of his mouth, but not quite."Son, you've got the wrong God. The God that you want doesn't exist." And he looked away and kept right on chomping on his Boston Creme. I stood and headed out the door, heading home, bewildered, confused again. I stumbled out onto 3rd Avenue. Once again, I had come close. Once again, I felt further from the truth. I took a deep breath and felt the city verve. God still escapes me, but I continue to look.