Bad Worship

I forgot about the new summer
starting time for church service
until I pulled into the parking lot,
already full. I dashed in
to find my robe and music, the choir
gathered in the foyer. I made it
in time, though without any warm-up
scales. We processed in.
I got through the introit,
the Lord’s Prayer alright, but jumbled
the Apostle’s Creed—getting “born
of the Virgin Mary” ahead
of “was conceived by the Holy Ghost”
which would never work
in any denomination. Then
there were two infant baptisms
before we could get the anthem
over with and all I could do
was admire how those moms involved
had gotten their figures back
until I felt like I ought to just slap
my bad self during silent prayer.
And who would have heard the blow
above all our descant stomachs;
the hacking and throat clearing
of our rainy May, contagious
throughout the congregation?

Latte

A mistake to visit, first, the art book
alcove at the snowy Grand Opening
of another Border’s—to browse
a sale of erotic coffee table volumes,
leafing through pen-and-ink drawings—Rojan’s
sated wanton reclining under
a still-tumescent donkey; stark
black and white photograph of long,
callused fingers cupping, from behind,
one petite mons—the sparse down
of which combs forth
between satyr knuckles. All this
to a background drone of Crusader plainsong,
taut-skinned war drums piped
from the acoustic ceiling. Better
to have studied deer widows
queued up to have steam forced
through dark mocha grounds; harken
to their spoons chiming
as they nuzzle the croissants.

Shave

That one patch of beard
tucked back in a sag
of the jaw—I try to shave it
back and forth; one way
then another. I’m clutching,
pulling down on my neck
and up on the cheek. Now
even if spots of blood
appear again, feel free
to kiss an old man right
there. Don’t mind the taste
of rubbing alcohol
or cotton-ball fibers
that stick to your own mouth.

In Our Drinking Fountain

In our drinking fountain,
anchored to a column
holding up the factory roof,
I found water steadily laving
over a rippled bottle of Evian.
The ‘spring water’ in its plastic jug
nearly filled the tarnished bowl.
I tried not to dribble
on it, but couldn’t gulp
or even sip the icy water
over thin enamel of my teeth
without some of it escaping.
It wasn’t my fault that someone chose
to chill their pretentious drink
under the coldest water
in our factory—the valve
of that spigot taped open
to bring water up through shifts
and model years on end.
At break, I saw it again
in the hands of a man playing
euchre. He flung a card down
with a hoarse shout, then kissed
that beaded trophy
to his wry mouth.