Sunday in Church
Molly Conway
I sip on vinegar, listen
plastic smiles are curving faces
saliva oozes from their lips
the construction is completed
the cloaked ministers masquerade
mouthing words of glory to God
the entranceway will spread the Word
member pat and hold each other
I closed my eyes, lips quivering
pleading for help to get through it
A heavy weight presses my brain
I sit a distance from the rest
The Good Shepherd stands in blues,
and reds high above the wooden
altar. The heavy bronze-colored
cross is flanked by bouquets of fresh
flowers. The ornate pipe organ
Tall, slender and fat papes enclosed,
thunders the familiar story
flashes of years ago gone by
We’re sinners and need to repent
by giving pieces of silver
The sermon is running over
The minster tells stupid jokes
Outside the sun is glaring, fresh
air, daffoldils and tulips in
first bloom, brilliant yellows and reds,
framed by deep green stems and grasses
The hollow ritual over
I rush out to meet the brightness
My legs strain and cramp. I walk fast
heading for that Oneness and Home.
