Sunday Morning Masquerade

Location

As I sit in my pew

The same pew I've sat in since birth,

On the left

6 rows back

Close to the middle aisle,

I can't help but see

The woman in the back,

As she cuts her eyes 

Across the sanctuary to 

Her dirty little secret,

Her undercover lover,

Her home away from homes.

Who she will see 

In a different view

When her husband leaves for work.

I can't help but see 

The usher as he greets greedily,

Sneakily Slipping a 

10,

20, 

100, 

Into his coat pocket.

I can't help but see 

The young girl on the front row,

Wearing that 

Long,

Black,

Fleece,

Sweater.

Hiding the map

She has carved in her wrists. 

 

As I sit in my pew

The same pew I've sat in since birth,

On the left

6 rows back

Close to the middle aisle,

I can't help but hear

The teenage badass to my right,

Churning the tar,

The waste,

The death that awaits,

Piled in his pretty boy lungs.

I can't help but hear

The baby in the nursery,

As it's mother rocks it to dreamland.

He cries and cries,

But Mama can't feed him

The poison, 

The syrup,

The injections, 

She let in

That got him hooked 

While he was only a thought.

I can't help but hear

The dunk of the sinner,

Who goes under a wet quilt 

Of purity,

Of cleanliness,

Of rebirth.

Yet will act as if this never happened

Tomorrow morning. 

 

As I sit in my pew

The same pew I've sat in since birth,

On the left

6 rows back

Close to the middle aisle,

I can't help but smell

The man that's 20 minutes late

As he stumbles

All tattered,

All rank,

All wide eyed,

From the night before.

Now it's Sunday morning,

And he's stuck with Saturday night

On his breath.

I can't help but smell

The cheap perfume 

Of the woman on the 11th row.

Her stringy hair,

Her smudged makeup,

Her mis-buttoned blouse…

They say a whore sweats in church,

This one glistens.

I can't help but smell

The sweat of the couple

Sitting in front of me,

While they detox 

Awaiting… 

The next fix,

The next hit,

The next dime bag

They'll get after the service,

3 blocks down the street.

 

As I sit in my pew

The same pew I've sat in since birth,

On the left

6 rows back

Close to the middle aisle,

I can't help but feel 

The hostility,

The rage,

The fear,

Of the congregation surrounding me.

As they wash their scars

With holy water,

And the hope of redemption 

That this 

White-washed tomb 

Promises.

They paint this canvas 

Of their pathetic lives…

Each fault a splash of colored guilt

Across this sordid portrait,

Yet all washed in crimson

And cloaked with white--

A pure color, 

Covering the stains of their sin

And making them clean

As they plaster on a good face

For the world to glimpse at.

 

As I sit in my pew

The same pew I've sat in since birth,

On the left

6 rows back

Close to the middle aisle,

I can't help but notice 

The blonde headed girl…

With her dress pressed,

Her lips lined,

Her heels high,

Her legs crossed

As she glares

Her eyes glazed over like wax paper,

With 

Hatred,

Fury,

Hypocrisy, 

Turmoil,

Judgment.

Her cold soul sits- 

Sulking in her pew.

The same pew she has sat in since birth,

On the left

6 rows back

Close to the middle aisle.

Comments

Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741