ORGANIZED RELIGION

ORGANIZED RELIGION                        

 

Kneeling, a servant of God,

I clutch at crab grass rooted 

long and wide like theological history,

and when I tug, it resists,

so embedded in the past-I burrow

to force it free.

 

A van slows curbside

during this dull combat

and to suspend misery

I shout a cursory hello.

 

When they emerge from a brief communion,

I stare at suited men with clipboards,

women clutching texts,

a pink dress that colours the sky,

the stealth bomber, braided blonde.

 

They jot notes, synchronize watches

gaze up and down the street;

shirts and ties work west,

skirts and sun prance my way,

knock at unresponsive doors

and then they arrive at me

equipped with seed and sphagnum,

cutting patches,

tabla rosa as philosophers might say.

 

I suggest that we both are sowing

but they do not laugh;

ask me to read ‘Awake’ instead,

but I’ve been up all morning

planting a select strain

that yearns for sun and rain,

but will surely mix with weed.