“Even so, Lord Jesus, come.” (Rev. 22:20)
Slouching, pinned by boredom to the pew.
Boredom while a pesky fly
flings itself about the slender box
formed by the narrow padded rows.
The sermon has become its own dull beast.
It plods the boards, the polished aisles
dragging lines of scribbled manuscript,
Hebrew words, some scraps of creeds.
Drear enough to dull the most bright-eyed
among parishioners, to lull
to mangled sleep with its hypnotic gaze
with a morning nap’s vague guilt.
His neighbor slyly picks her ragged nails.
She lightly taps her booted foot
and ducks her head, eluding bungled words,
the draft from badly cracked stained glass.
The walls of dusky brick corral them here
like the edges of a pen
for woolly sheep more feisty than this flock.
Stout enough to keep them still.
While overhead, the squirrels faintly scritch
the tarry shingles loosely held
by ancient nails. Brash creatures not restrained
by the preacher’s monotone.
To the pulpit’s right, a board
lists Rock of Ages as the final hymn.
The fly has yet to end its flight.
The cheap green ceiling fan drones on, drones on.
