I’d skip registration
and catch the 535 into town,
slapping into a dusty seat I would sit
staring at mother’s force feeding the morning
bottle and old couples supporting
one another down the isle.
I’d walk through the street, past building society’s
packed with pension grubbers, dolites
and mortgage scrabblers; coffee palaces
brimming with comfy jeans snuggled
into war torn leather, supporting double-shot
skinny de-caf frappuccino with sprinkles,
doubling up on false conversation.
I step up through the path
across redemption paving,
in through the archway
and sit in the the pew.
I’d watch old birds peck at dirty pages,
while the collared chap
dusts the ripped
oak beams, eyes praying for conversation.
This is your God now, shallow
and deafeningly silent.
I bought one one of your necklaces
and paid in gold, frankincense and myrrh:
It’s buried somewhere I think, gulls
probably squawk above it.