Sunday Morning

Matt Court

 

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...
Our Father,
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.

Euphemism Campus Box 5555 Illinois State University Normal, IL 61790