You Own a Church

 

The seats rise and
take their coats.
There is no
excuse only fact. Hurry
to the door's edge, the proscenium
of public where the postman
stops. Today, she said, today. Fill outs
in the out box; in's in
the in box.
I never know quite what she means.
To the cleaners they go, pressed
with the slacks and hung by the mantle.
When you find the cupboard
and the creamer, when you
scrape the chair across the
floor, when you see the jelly
and dustpan,
do ring, will you? do?
She has so much to say
and a seat on the high council.

 

 

back to issue two

 

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