Sunday

  “We praise you, O God,  
  our redeemer, creator…”  
Almost time to get tidied up  
presentable  
for the parade of washed and scrubbed souls  
lined up in our chairs in the chemo ward  
waiting for that weekly infusion of faith  
   
  “Not what my hands have done  
  can save my guilty soul…”  
I do want to look like I have my shit together,  
at least enough for basic hygiene  
forget that an hour before, I was stinking and greasy.
I’ll stand up there and sing    
and they’ll imagine me “mature in faith”,  
strong  
a leader, even  
a fucking hypocrite  
barely managing to mumble their language  
around the marbles of doubt.  
Anyway, I can believe in the music  
even if the words taste a bit poisonous  
   
  “My life flows on in endless song  
  above earth’s lamentation…”  
Some poison can be good, you know.  
You just need it to kill more of the bad stuff  
than the good stuff.  
Maybe that’s what we should pray for:  
God, don’t let us take this too seriously;  
let us feel the complexity of your music  
without tripping on our simplistic words  
   
  “My friends, may you grow in grace…”  
   
How can I keep from singing?  
   
   
.