My Sunday wars
The cars in reverential ranks are few
These days, and rusting. Like their owners, they
Have trundled through instalment days, and who
Would blame them? It’s the charge they have to pay
To brand, to institution, and to god.
New jingles seep from old religion’s shop.
Walking past distractedly, it’s odd
The smear of cut-rate organ made me stop.
Can it be bricked-in fear that reels them back?
No architecture, crucifix, or cloth
Could surely pay the wages of their claque?
Their sabbath soup’s a stale, insipid broth.
The vestibule restrains two walking frames
Attentive as dogs leashed outside a bank.
Eternity’s inside, the ghost house claims.
Why does it bother? Who’ll be left to thank
It for its desiccated faithfulness?
A flick of time, at most a decade, it
Will boast a fast-food restaurant, or less.
Doesn’t it know we’ve already betrayed it?
Or is it me who doesn’t get the point?
Maybe the geriatrics on their knees,
See something else about this pastor’s joint
That excludes me: a club whose members’ fees
Are set so high to keep the sceptics out
By being free. Belief instead of money?
Is that the price for self-inflicted doubt?
Could it be that lack of faith’s undone me?
Roger G McDonald