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Praise The Lord!

Tom Merrill

Some ensure their speech prevails
by turning on their built-in microphone,
mastering mass by volume.

It’s hardly a wonder when you see
them all alone. Still,
their agitated yapping

meets less resistance in some people,
borderline bestialists maybe,
who perhaps derive a secret thrill

from manic bursts of such weaponry.
I hear one haranguing the world right now,
jamming airways with high-amp yammer

not unlike that obstreperous steeple
down at the corner,
whose tyrannic clangings and gongings

flood mon balcon twice daily
with an insurmountable clamor,
enforcing its will that none but the bellwether’s

blustery ring should be heard,
that all further persiflage be deferred,
usurping acres of space with a grandly

imposed reminder of hell’s infernal
contempt for any affairs but its own.
A tiny bit softer tinkle or ding,

something a little more in tune
with their promise of heavenly harmony
might seem just a tad less ironic,

would certainly be less deafening,
might even bolster one’s sagging assurance
God’s welcome committee could maybe be more

than a gang of roaring pigfaced louts.
Try addressing a barking dog someday—
then praise the Lord for not muzzling its snout.

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