Not At Home (Poetry)

A few loyal old-timers make their way
mainly out of habit and because it is Sunday
and there’s little else for them to do except
keep the Sabbath as tradition duly has it kept
and go churchwards dressed in uncomfortable clothes
sit and half-listen — maybe for minutes discreetly doze
along with silent others while vaguely questioning
if anyone is up there or
                                even listening.

More likely God’s off walking out of doors
come sun or rain — however hard and blustery it pours
despite the lightning’s sudden flash — the storm’s incoherent
                                                                grumbling
a counterpoint to clouds of rising prayer — those familiar voices
                                                                mumbling
from always-needy children — so demanding
it seems a father’s duty’s neverending
and there’s no respite — no weekend break or holiday
this ‘day of rest’ thing evidently
                                only works one way.

Through some fragrant garden’s unlocked crooked gate
Jesus may by now have made his quiet escape
and wanders empty fields to find some degree of peace
He smiles at flowers — indulging in some hippy-guy caprice
for relaxation therapy by sowing love’s wild seeds
in meadows all the while the far-off roaring preacher reads
his fire and brimstone sermons — hurls each holy word
like small sharp stones in battle aimed
                                straight at Hell’s red door.

Thus the congregation — these few agéd souls well-scattered
in the pews convince themselves that piety still matters
in a godless world where that devil ‘doubt’ has gotten hold
and so each Sunday — come blazing heat or withering Arctic cold
they shuffle in and cross themselves — obediently visiting
even though they half-suspect in truth there’s no one in...
they bring offerings — lay round pound coins upon the sacred plate
yet fear it’s much too little and
                                they’ve left it far too late.