“George Washington worshipped here in 1794.”
10 AM Worship: life now and in the world to come.
George, this worship has bullet holes in it—
Reverend Myers sent me and Charles Salyards
to loosen the noose, to empty the fire extinguisher,
to dip our hands in holy water, and to say,
“rejoice” and “glory” and “get your hand out of my pocket.”
And you say, “why? I need money.”
This prayer is interrupted. Trucks and motorcycles
have been unleashed on earth—I’ve been leashed.
Reverend Myers is in the front row of the balcony.
Just up the road, an officer writes a parking ticket,
and I can’t tell if you are in prison or if it is me.
Truck exhaust smears the stained glass windows
and I can’t hear the organ player’s tune;
we need to sing faster, to march single file,
to lower our voices from the balcony
and our bodies from these cell blocks.
All of us won’t fit through the iron bars.
Maybe we’ll have to set the floor planks on fire
and escape through the smoke screen,
or maybe we can hide under a blanket and collect dust
until 10am service starts on a Sunday in 2094.