sunday

sunday, you smell like
a bridge over troubled water
on the way to church
southern son's and daughters
with long and lacy skirts
and lipsticked linen collars
gather round for grace
head home to hidden hollers
wrapped in your embrace
we pray on skinned-up knees
off behind the place
where the congregation meets
i know who to thank
and you know what i need
sunday best in heaps
on the floor where we had fallen
leaves scattered at your feet
brought by broken window breeze
so get dressed come on
sunday dinner's done-
i think i hear them calling
in the wind we'll meet again
like flowers and their pollen