Spilled out of the mouth
of the church.
Faces like wilted flowers,
two days too late to be beautiful
anymore. In this place,
everything is ritual.
Feet shuffle in time
to the automatic prayer machine.
Two, three, four...
who art in heaven?
Got a good rhythm, but it's pretty hard to dance to.
How come when we're in God's house
we never have to take off our shoes?
Everyone looks down.
In this place
we're all little kids being scolded.