driving through this rainy morning Sunday
you in your puritan dress and humming hymns
and me trying to remember when last I went
to service, to the gathering of the faithful, when
last I broke bread with the brethren and
feasted on the flesh of a two-thousand-year dead
savior, heard the word beat into the pulpit straight
into my mind and soul, thew and bone, had guilt
rained down on me like hail and brimstone . . .

Now, you reach over and remind me that Jesus
loves me, that I am His lamb, that we are chosen,
and I smile knowing that I shall take you to the gates
of the church, escort you to the door, and walk down
a more familiar road to grab a beer and praise the sky
for raining after a long, dry summer . . .

DM Pitchford, copyright September 2011