Some Sunday Morning

I hang outside these
southern steeples white
with signs in english spanish and
go-home-yankee;
hands clasped around Hav-A-Tamp
Gold
like long coins in the plate.
It was always dollar bills before;
who wants allowance when
the lambs need fed?
Communion was too sweet then;
I never did like kool-aid.

And w(h)ine drives me mad.

We watch the ladies
drive on by in Baptist best
with knees undressed in
nylon born from eggs called 'nude';
real classy, ladies.
Lips purse,
purse lips
snap closed quick
because the grungy girls
at church corners are up to no good
with their sweet little cigars
for the lambs.
The bread was always so stale;
bodies are supposed to have bite.

There's this guy at the door.

He says,
'I miss your knees,
and the way you used to go
down on them.'

But you should have thought of that
before
burying my Sabbath shine
beneath some anonymous Ash(es of)
Wednesday.