The God of Stereotypes

I did not believe she existed,
until sensible shoes descended
grimy train steps - no vision
or fatigued apparition but tangible.

Argyle sweater, Wayfarer glasses:
superficial decorations of self.
One fair trade bag, half eaten sushi:
her ornaments are instinctively placed.

Worn Dostoevsky and pencil in hand,
us mortals can merely murmur
at the accessories that make us.

As as I chronicle this god on Earth
my pen can detail her vision
but the final result must omit
the only important aspect:
her person.

a/n: edit. God's are only perfect because we say so.