One dawn I crawled
out from under the pews
and replaced the book
of common prayer
I used as a pillow.
On the cross
the Christ
seemed to be asleep,
so I tiptoed
not wishing to wake him
and jar him out of sorts
an hour before
the Sunday faithful
pinned their woes
to his flesh.
In the vestibule
a stack of polished oaken
collection plates
awaited the touch
of congregant hands
and the weight of money
as a secondary relief
from sin.
I seeded the top plate
with a dollar
on my way out.
copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney
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