They’re upset with me at church, don’t want me
back. I keep dashing down tight aisles during
sermons, pausing like Jonas at pews, see
feet peeking out and stomp them hard, curing
wicked souls. No one understands. Ushers
grab me, sometimes tackle, push me quickly
out exits. Last Sunday, one guy—crusher
with Samson biceps—crowned me with prickly
knuckles rather than thorns. I handle it.
Keep the faith. Think next week I’ll sneak in through
a sacristy door, Roman candle lit
and set for stars, smile humbly at guards who
carry me away, cop my ancient plea,
Oh take me and cast me into the sea.
Roger Armbrust
September 11, 2009
