there are too many solitary sundays
when i’d go to church just for the friendship;
the idle how-was-your-week; the watery
coffee and the days-old cake; the old women
smiling despite their newly dead husbands.
nevermind the believing bit, or bettering of mankind
and all that dogmatic drivel.
i’d just linger by the cinnamon doughnuts and
make up tall tales of my life for those who’d listen
to a rags-clad gentile: what’s your story?
they’d ask. i work in human resources, i’d say,
but i don’t know many people around here.
we’ve never seen anyone so young
in church before, they’d whisper. mostly,
i’d say, i just saw the sign for food and an open door.
makes me wonder how many
of the apostles just wanted a meal
and some friends.