At Church

In what sense am I nearer to my God

For being here?  This priest's a kindly dullard:

His sermon's borrowed, stumbled through slipshod.

These windows are not art, though brightly colored.

The choirmaster's voice is grandiose.

My neighbor in the pew would have me gone.

(Such spinsters clutch the third commandment close.)

The muscles of the neck suppress a yawn.

How many of the men believe as I do,

Who come to waste part of this least of days

Waiting in hope to kindle faith, or try to

Affect the candle's flicker with my gaze,

Or watch, as the communicants parade

Back to their seats, to see the glimmer fade?

Alfred Nicol

© 2000 Alfred Nicol; originally printed in Troubador.
Reprinted by permission of the author.